The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  A ten per cent ‘discard’ per load was average in most potteries, but Drayton’s prided itself on never exceeding five per cent. Faultless production in the remaining pieces more than made up for any imbalance and often merited considerably higher pricing than expected, so that in the end the load still proved profitable. Exports to Europe and America, as well as supplies to important dealers in London and leading provincial cities, had been built to a standard of perfection unequalled elsewhere. Firing cycles were carefully planned in regular sequence, but a heavy loss from only one could upset the whole programme and, this time, it was particularly serious because the order from the London gallery had been a big one.

  Olivia had made all the major pieces herself, carefully supervising and inspecting the rest because responsibility for the whole department was hers. She therefore knew that no faulty item had emerged from the modelling sheds, but after such a disaster it could be difficult to prove. Piecing together masses of fragments in search of evidence could be well nigh impossible.

  She was grieved over her wildlife reproductions, a line which had won for her an increasingly high reputation. Every piece had been individually commissioned from preliminary sketches, every price individually quoted and accepted — with an additional percentage for signed editions because her initials on the bases increased their value. Now each one would have to be remodelled, put aside to dry out, then bisque-fired, glazed, and glaze-fired yet again. That meant not only weeks of work and weeks of delay, but the loss of costly materials. Rutile and manganese, whiting and feldspar, not to mention chemical oxides for fusing in glazes, meant nothing to laymen who imagined that the only thing needed to produce a ceramic article was a lump of clay. To a buyer, an order was an order and failure to deliver by an agreed date was a black mark against a potter’s name.

  Olivia took a deep breath and told her workers not to worry. ‘These things happen,’ she reiterated, trying to sound more philosophical than she felt, for although there could be several causes for such a disaster, the most frequent was the omission of a vent hole in a ‘closed’ item. Only open pots and bowls and domestic crocks had no need for this. Blame would therefore focus on the modelling department, where everything had to be hollow and with pierced bases. Without an air hole, a piece would explode.

  ‘Has the kiln been drawn yet?’

  ‘They’re still at it, M’s ’Livia, the damage was that bad.’

  She decided to visit the firing area to find out what she could. Any action was better than staying here, knowing her workers were trying to concentrate while anxiety gnawed at them, each fearful that one of their own pieces might be to blame. Tiredness, fatigued eyes at the end of the day, or sheer forgetfulness could so easily cause a simple oversight. The late Master Potter had been stern about carelessness, but compassionate when compassion was called for. In the new regime, what would happen?

  *

  Olivia was shocked by the extent of the damage. Broken pots littered the ground, intermingled with shattered figurines and fragmented models. Never before had she seen such extensive wastage from a single firing.

  News of the disaster had spread on that silent wave which seeped through any pottery when something had gone wrong. No doubt it was known throughout Burslem by now, and soon it would spread throughout the length and breadth of the potteries. In the firing area, groups of workers huddled silently: glazers, throwers, wedgers, turners, riddlers, decorators, sagger-makers, packers, mould-makers and slip-casters, and even canalside women who drove carts to and from the clay-carrying barges — anyone who could steal a moment was doing so, slipping away again to describe the scene to workers back in the sheds, and all the time the firers worked on, unloading the wreckage and dumping it on the ground for people to examine if they wished. Someone might spot doubtful pieces and recognize their source.

  Olivia saw Dave Jefferson with Meg Tinsley. Both were unaware of Abby Walker slipping quietly into view. The turning tool in her hand testified that she had halted in the middle of a task, unable to contain her curiosity. It was possibly the first such disaster the child had ever seen and her eyes were round with dismay. ‘Thanks be t’God we can’t be blamed,’ she was saying to another worker as Olivia passed. ‘Turners’ve only to put rims on bases an’ now’t else.’

  In that case, Olivia was tempted to say, the sooner she continued with the job in hand the better because the pottery was going to need plenty of completed stock, and speedily. But who could speak harshly to Abby?

  Olivia walked on until she reached the rogue kiln and heard Lionel angrily demanding an explanation which the chief firer stonily refused to give.

  ‘Ye cain’t point blame until the whole load be out, sir. Ye’d best be patient-like an’ leave us t’the job.’ Such blunt speech displeased the new Master, who turned away and, seeing Olivia, held up some broken pieces. ‘These are plainly from figurines,’ he said. ‘We will talk in my office.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she answered, and turned away. Lingering in the firing area was a waste of time and she was suddenly impatient to be working again. She and her team would now have weeks of overtime ahead, but before she made a start it might be wise to get the talk with Lionel over and done with.

  Glancing at the ancient clock in the yard she saw that it was now ten-thirty, which meant that classes for the potters’ children were in progress. This explained Amelia’s absence. Olivia was glad of that. Such a scene could only distress her.

  *

  Studying the broken pieces on his desk Lionel thought, with satisfaction, that at least Olivia would not be able to fool him over the cause of such a disaster. Spending the major part of his life in the potteries, and overhearing ‘potters’ talk’, had taught him more than he had realized until now. So when he accused her of responsibility for the tragedy, she would scarcely be able to argue.

  She walked into the room with her customary self-assurance. Far from annoying him, it amused him. He would enjoy deflating it.

  He met her with a smile.

  ‘I thought I would give you the opportunity to apologize in private rather than in front of the workers,’ he said. ‘The last thing I want to do is to humiliate you.’

  Ignoring his last words, she asked, ‘Apologize for what?’

  ‘No hedging, please. You know perfectly well that you and you alone are to blame for today’s disaster.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort. Nor does anyone — as yet. The whole firing will have to be examined if any sound conclusion can be come to. That means days of searching and sorting and piecing together, and from the look of things it could take weeks. Time is too valuable for that. Every potter in the place will have to put in double time to replace such a huge loss. The best thing to do is to clear up the mess and put the tragedy behind us.’

  ‘I will decide on the best thing to do. There will be a thorough investigation. Every item that can be salvaged and matched, will be salvaged and matched until guilt is established. That excludes bowls, jugs, bottles, and all thrown ware. So what is left? Hand-modelled pieces. Yours. Do you think I don’t know how such items have to be made? Do you think I don’t know the importance of air-vents and what will result if they are forgotten?’

  ‘There can be other causes for blow-ups. Insufficiently wedged clay. Lingering grit. Air bubbles that have somehow not been eliminated in the processing. Items not thoroughly dried out. All these things can ruin any object, whether thrown or hand-built. Even too coarse a flint in clays such as stoneware, which this pottery is dedicated to overcoming, can be the root of the trouble. That is one reason why Simon Kendall has designed a new grinding mill — to provide us with powdered flints of such a fine texture that we will be able to produce better stoneware than anyone else.’

  ‘All that is beside the point. And we were firing earthenware today, not stoneware. You are trying to shift the blame.’

  ‘No one must be blamed. It is too serious to focus on any one person or on any one shed. Every potter in the place will
know the seriousness of it and wonder if he or she is to blame. Anxiety of that kind is punishment enough. Now let us all get on with our work.’

  ‘That would suit you admirably, no doubt.’

  ‘I am thinking of what would be best for Drayton’s, and I doubt if a single worker would disagree with me.’

  ‘What the workers think is of no importance —’

  ‘To you, perhaps, but not to me. Nor to Amelia, because what they thought and felt was always important to Martin, the best Master Potter this place ever had. In the whole of your life you will never learn as much about the craft as he did.’ Anger drove her even as wisdom urged her to be silent. ‘If you have brought me here solely to lay blame at my door, then be done with it. I have work to do. But before I go let me tell you this — putting an end to Amelia’s museum will condemn you in the workers’ eyes. They won’t forgive you for treating her so high-handedly. How long did it take to have this place cleared?’ Her glance went to the adjoining room and impulsively she flung open the door, revealing stacked hazel and willow crates which time had proved best for transporting pottery. In these straw-filled containers were already packed away years of diligent searching and restoring and identifying and labelling.

  Tears stung Olivia’s eyes. Slamming the door to shut out the unhappy sight, she then let her glance rove to her cousin’s new furnishings. The desk with its splendid matching chair was as ostentatious as the stack of ornately framed paintings waiting to be hung. (And where had those come from — Carrion House or from an indulgent mama easily persuaded to part with them?) In one corner rolls of brand new carpet were propped.

  ‘I suppose you are waiting for re-decorating to be done before all that can be laid,’ she said, ‘but I expect you will have it put in hand as speedily as you had this room emptied. The walls certainly testify to the good use they were put to; not even your fine gilt-framed pictures will obliterate the marks. But I’m sure your decorative taste will be excellent. How magnificent it will be, when finished! The most impressive master potter’s office in Staffordshire, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Anger suddenly choked her. She whirled to the door and reached it at the precise moment that Deborah Kendall walked in.

  The girl stood still, glancing from Olivia’s face to Lionel’s and then, slowly, about the room.

  ‘What is happening here? Where are all the exhibits?’ Her eyes turned back to Olivia. ‘And why are you looking upset and angry?’

  ‘Because I am upset and angry — and I’ll show you why!’ She flung open the communicating door. ‘There is Amelia’s museum — all of it! It seems impossible that so many rare and precious items could be crammed into things like that, but they have been — by order of our dear cousin, the new Master Potter who needs a bigger and better office for himself.’

  Sparing no further glance for either of them, Olivia walked out of the place.

  When she had gone, Deborah asked quietly, ‘Is it true?’

  ‘That I am relieving dear Amelia of much stress and anxiety? Yes. Why not? The work had become too much for her.’

  ‘It never seemed too much. She loved it. And she was proud of the Drayton Museum.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, but there is a time for everything —’

  ‘Such as a time for her to retire, as you said the other night — speaking out of concern for her, of course?’

  ‘I’m glad you remember that.’

  She was looking at him searchingly, seeking reassurance; begging to be convinced that she had not been wrong in her judgement of him. ‘Aunt Amelia will be hurt,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear the thought of that.’

  When he took a step toward her she imperceptibly withdrew and when he tried to take her hands she evaded him by clasping both about a roll of stiff paper she was carrying. It was the first time he had noticed it.

  ‘Come, Deborah,’ he said gently. ‘You misunderstand. Let me explain.’

  ‘What explanation is there? You said she should retire only when she was ready to, but now you seem to be speeding her on her way. Rob her of the museum, and what has she left?’

  ‘A great deal. She is interested in the workers’ children and can continue to occupy herself in that way for the time being. She also has a comfortable income from the pottery, which will continue to some degree when she leaves.’

  ‘Pensioning her off, you mean?’

  ‘Looking after her financially,’ he corrected, then changed the subject. ‘What is that you’ve brought? A picture of some kind?’

  ‘A design of my own. I wanted to show it to Amelia and Olivia and — yes — to you, because you were encouraging.’

  ‘Then let me see it.’ He held out a hand. ‘Didn’t I promise to give you my fullest attention?’ His voice dropped a note. ‘I shall always find that easy.’ When she made no answer he added, ‘Why do you hesitate? Surely you aren’t shy? Come, show me your design.’

  ‘I’m sorry — no. I have changed my mind.’

  She closed the door quietly, but firmly, as she left.

  *

  Although his talk with Olivia had not developed wholly as planned, Lionel was not displeased. Meeting his attractive young cousin again had been a welcome interruption, though it would have been more so at another time. He never liked being placed in a bad light, but was confident that he could overcome it.

  But as for Olivia, that was a different matter. She had irked him throughout his life and seemed bent on continuing. For this reason he was determined to stress his authority. He would carry out the threatened investigation and if some broken pieces of her work could be justifiably suspect, so much the better. She would then have no choice but to resign and Amelia, in support, would follow.

  The thought that he was several steps nearer to getting rid of the pair of them, restored his spirits. The sooner he issued orders to have every broken item minutely examined, the better. He could dismiss Olivia’s nonsense about leeway having to be made up as rapidly as possible, for surely an established pottery like Drayton’s had plenty of stocks in hand and therefore no need to worry about just one bad firing? More essential was the need to impress on every worker that their new master was a man to be feared and respected, like his father before him.

  So resolving, he headed again for the kilns, but came face to face with Abby Walker immediately outside his door. He had forgotten the girl, but recognized her at once. Not even smudges of clay could lessen the enchantment of her face.

  ‘And what are you doing here?’ he asked indulgently. ‘Why aren’t you at your bench?’

  ‘Why ain’t everybody?’ she quipped. ‘Wot with all this huller-berloo, folks cain’t be blamed fer sneaking off fer a few minutes. So I thought, Mebbe Master Potter’ll be willing to spare a mite of ’is time fer the likes o’me.’

  ‘And why should I?’

  She wanted to say, ‘Ye know damn well why! ’Cos ye eyed me good’n proper first time ye see’d me, so why pretend now?’ But not for nothing had artfulness been instilled into her. She therefore answered guilelessly, ‘Because I be Abby Walker an’ ye spoke t’me kindly t’other day. So I thought ye’d mebbe spare time for a word, sir. Only a minute-like.’

  The wheedling note was irresistible. A hasty glance round the potters’ yard assured him that no one was in sight; even Peterson the gatekeeper had left his post to gather with others by the kilns. For that, the man could be taken to task later. For now, it amused the new Master Potter to casually reopen his office door.

  Inside, Abby stood stock still.

  ‘My, but ain’t it big! Kinda empty too, with all Mistress ’Melia’s treasures gone…’

  ‘And is that what you want to talk about, Abby? I recall your threat of a battle between us.’ He smiled. ‘Have you come to wage it?’

  ‘Well, since ye mention it, sir, it do seem kinda cruel an’ folks is sayin’ as much.’

  ‘Are they indeed? Then they, and you, can keep their tongues still.’

  The steel in his voice chilled
her. It was a new experience. Men’s voices were always warm when they spoke to Abby Walker and since this man had favoured her with approving glances she had anticipated the same from him.

  The unexpected rebuff made her step backward, only to find herself up against a solid desk in the middle of the room, with his body confronting her. And the door shut.

  ‘You understand me, Abby?’ The tone was soft now, but the steel was there still.

  ‘Aye — that I do, Master Potter.’

  His hand reached out to touch her cheek, then halted. ‘You’re a pretty wench, Abby, but no man likes to kiss a dirty face.’ A second later he was wiping it with a fine cambric kerchief which he then cast aside. The contact left her breathless, so that when his mouth came down to hers she made no resistance. In a remote corner of her mind the thought registered that she must have taken leave of her senses, but how enjoyable it was…and mebbe he would want more…and how pleased Mam would be!

  But not Dave Jefferson. She thrust the thought aside and remained quite still as the Master Potter’s hand slipped inside her bodice and fondled her small breasts. This too was something she had never experienced before, despite the number of men who visited her mother and tried to take liberties with the daughter when the woman wasn’t looking. But Kate had eyes in the back of her head and would pounce, sharp as lightning. ‘It be my services ye pay fer, ye randy bugger!’ And off into the outside privy she would pack her daughter, hail or shine, summer or winter, hot or cold, and there Abby would huddle until her Mam’s business were done with, hoping it would be quick this time and she’d let her back indoors. Kate would then give her a mug of tea laced with rum and be kind, in her rough way, until it was time for Abby to tumble into the rickety bed they shared. Then Kate would be off to the Red Lion to pick up more customers and go with them wherever they willed because, as she so often reminded her daughter, she was a good mother who didn’t want to disturb her child’s rest.

  ‘Ye’ll understand when ye’re a bit older,’ she would say, ‘’an that time ain’t afar off, from the look o’ye.’ And the painted face would smile as she scanned her daughter’s rapidly maturing body.