The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  ‘That they ain’t, mistress. How could they be without M’s Amelia an’ M’s ’Livia? They kept Drayton’s together, them two. But it’s a living, o’course, an’ I count me blessings.’

  ‘And you still have the Tinsley cottage in Larch Lane?’

  ‘Aye, thanks be t’God.’

  ‘And you think you could manage there if Abby were with you? Wouldn’t it be too cramped?’

  ‘I’d fix things. I’d manage. She’d be better off an’ I’d be a deal easier in me mind, an’ though right now she thinks I be an interfering busybody, she’d feel different once we were t’gether again.’ Meg finished sadly, ‘We useter be so close, Abby an’ me. Like me own child, she were.’

  Jessica didn’t know what she could do to help, but decided that she would definitely do something. She would consult Simon. Deborah, too. Ever since Miguel had made that splendid suggestion about starting a new pottery, her daughter had been enthusiastic, full of bright ideas and agog to help. The two young people had involved themselves in the project whole-heartedly.

  The first question had concerned the situation of it. The location of a new pottery required considerable thought. There had to be space in which to build the first kiln, space that could be cobble-stoned or brick-set, with sufficient area to accommodate at least one more kiln eventually, and there had to be worksheds for throwers and turners and glazers and modellers and mould-makers, although at the start the minimum would be employed.

  There had been so many things to decide, so many things to set in motion, and though Amelia had declared that the launching of the pottery was of greater importance than re-launching her museum, she had been unanimously overruled by the rest of them. They were all in it together, united in enthusiasm.

  Miguel had suggested Tremain. He was sure some outbuildings there could be converted for use as a pottery and that his father would give his consent. When approached, Max Freeman agreed, providing the kilns could be situated far on the outskirts of the estate, or Aggie would have the vapours — and he wouldn’t much like the sight or smell of belching chimneys. Wouldn’t it be possible to cart the stuff away to be fired down in Burslem? And mightn’t Tremain’s inaccessibility discourage prospective customers — and possibly the grandeur of the place even intimidate some?

  The centre of Burslem was obviously the most desirable location, but with proliferating industry such a site was hard to find. Then Deborah suddenly asked, ‘Why not here at Ashburton? With Papa’s enterprises attracting more and more attention, and the main road from Stoke-on-Trent passing right by our gates, a bare six miles from Burslem wouldn’t discourage clients. And there are acres of space down in the valley, and still some outbuildings that Papa hasn’t put to good use.’ Excitedly she had cried, ‘Seize them, Olivia, or he’ll be using them for some other project! And think of this — a new pottery established right here would be on the spot to have first choice of the new ground flints.’

  That settled the matter, and now preparations were almost complete. The site was on a distant perimeter of Ashburton’s estates, but accessible to the Stoke road, where a new entrance was being made. A bottle oven was having the final touches put to it and draught-testing would take place within a few days. Earth-floors in suitable outhouses had been flagged, work benches built, kick-wheels installed, supplies of clay and grog and whiting and rutile and manganese delivered. It was as exciting as dear Martin’s early venture into independent production, but on a large scale, for Olivia and Amelia could fortunately launch the concern backed by years of experience and the support of men like Simon and Damian.

  No one expected quick results. Potteries weren’t established that way. It would take time and patience and dedicated hard work, slowly proving its worth, gradually building up individual lines which would become instantly recognizable as the work of the Ashburton Pottery. From the start, that name was the obvious choice; wise, also, for to involve the name of Drayton would instantly suggest rivalry. People would look on, waiting for the new Drayton establishment to founder and ‘those two eccentric women’ along with it. But a new industrial project alongside other Ashburton concerns would arouse neither criticism nor adverse comment; it would be accepted as yet another venture to which that experienced man, Simon Kendall, had given his approval, otherwise he would not have accommodated it.

  Jessica now jumped to her feet, saying eagerly, ‘Come, Meg, I want to show you something —’ and from the terrace she led her across sweeping lawns toward a far distant screen of trees, heading for a path curving away between them.

  As they approached it, a figure came walking toward them. It was Olivia. She wore the homespun working clothes she had worn at the Drayton Pottery and over one arm she carried the thick hessian apron she had always preferred to a potter’s slop. Her hands were clay-soiled and she looked for all the world as if she had just walked out of the modelling shed.

  She called, ‘I’m on my way to the house to clean up.’

  Her face lit up at the sight of Meg, and Jessica called back, ‘And I was on my way to you because it’s important that you talk with Meg…’ When they came abreast Jessica finished, ‘She’s the very person you need, Olivia, and she needs you.’

  Chapter 11

  When Meg rapped on his door next morning and walked in without waiting to be summoned, Lionel Drayton was momentarily speechless. He didn’t like Meg Tinsley; an uncomfortable woman, with an arrogant walk and a disconcerting glance which he chose to call insolent though secretly recognizing it as uncompromising. Such a quality he found baffling. Boldness he knew how to handle, but a cool and enigmatic approach he did not. Worse, he could hazard no guess for her unceremonious arrival.

  ‘I’d like a word with ye, Master Potter.’

  No ‘please, sir’; no curtseying; no waiting to be spoken to.

  ‘Did you seek it through the Overseer?’ he answered sharply. ‘You know the rule. No worker can approach the Master Potter direct.’ Glancing at his desk, he added, ‘Your name is not on this morning’s list.’

  ‘‘Cos there ain’t been time t’get it there. Willis is away on canalside…’ She almost added, ‘bossing everybody around, like ’e be doing these days,’ but managed to refrain. Willis, formerly chief thrower, had been newly appointed as overseer, but was not making a good job of it. He was more at home at the wheel. She reckoned Willis wouldn’t last long and then the Master Potter would be looking around for someone else, but if any other man would willingly take on the job, she doubted very much. Still, that was no concern of hers. The realization that she could now put events at the Drayton Pottery right out of her mind left Meg with an exhilarating sense of freedom.

  ‘Then find him, and leave it to him to arrange an appointment.’ With this dismissive remark Lionel turned back to his work, though most of the accumulated papers on his desk were baffling and he was realizing, more and more, that he needed some knowledgeable person to rely on; someone better than a manual worker; someone with administrative experience, or a grasp of it. Even his mother said so, though her advice always jarred on him. Every time he paid a duty call she would start asking about affairs at Drayton’s and expounding on how his father would have handled this or that situation. She had harped on things only last night.

  ‘Although I don’t like to say so, dear boy, I have to admit that Amelia, having worked so closely with Martin throughout the years, must surely be able to guide you — or could have done, had you not been so unwise as to let her go. Oh, I know you acted with the best possible intentions, and I commend you for it — but perhaps — a little too hastily?’

  Damn his mother. He had fallen into the habit of taking supper with her once a month, partially to ease his conscience about neglecting her (it was Amelia who had accused him of that) and partially because timing a visit to coincide with one of Pierre’s excellent meals spared him much tiresome conversation. His mother could talk even with her mouth full and all he had to do was pretend to listen.

  Meg Tinsley’
s next impertinent remark jerked him back to the moment.

  ‘There ain’t no time like the present, Master Potter, an’ it won’t take long, neether. I’ve come to tell ye I’m quitting, an’ since me wages are paid by the hour an’ ye can lay me off at a moment’s notice without pay, I can do t’same. But me new employers won’t hear of it. “’T’wouldn’t be fair,” they said. “’T’wouldn’t be right.” So I’ll tell you wot I’ll do. I’ll work the week out t’give ye time t’replace me. I’ve worked at Drayton’s nigh on all me life an’ I feel it only proper. So I won’t pack up me tools ’til the week’s out. An’ now I’ll get back t’me bench. Good morning t’ye, Master Potter.’

  She had reached the door before he regained his breath. Then he exploded.

  ‘You can leave this instant! Out you go now — straight through this door and out through the gates. Whoever your new employer is, he may have you, and welcome.’

  Impudently, she curtseyed. ‘Thanks, Master Potter, that suits me fine — an’ good day t’ye.’

  But he delayed her by declaring that if her new employer was known to him, there would be trouble.

  ‘That ain’t likely, sir. Ye’ve no indentures on me. An’ it should be easy t’find another chief turner in a place like Burslem.’

  ‘It won’t be necessary to look even that far. There’s a young woman under you who can take your place.’

  ‘Which one d’ye have in mind, sir? Any of the women I’ve trained be good workers, some better’n others.’

  ‘The choice of your successor is my concern, not yours.’ As she opened the door he added, ‘And let me remind you that all tools are the property of this establishment so if you remove any you will be charged with theft. You must look to your new employer to provide such items, which I hope will be as good as those supplied here.’

  ‘Oh, they will be, sir. I be sure o’ that. Only the best’ll be good enough for M’s Olivia an’ Mistress Drayton.’

  *

  After a moment’s stunned silence he wanted to laugh aloud, and did so as soon as the door closed. Then he sobered as something his mother had said last night filtered belatedly into his mind. Agatha babbled so much that he had schooled himself into ignoring most of it, but now memory dredged up some of her words.

  ‘…it was Miguel’s idea… Max will listen to anything he says…if you ask me, the whole scheme is too ridiculous to heed…’

  What idea? What scheme? Being uninterested, he had paid no attention, but now he was alert and suddenly suspicious. Those two women were up to something — but what? They couldn’t be establishing their own pottery. Whoever heard of a pot bank owned and run by women? So it could be no more than some trivial sideline connected with the new museum. That was it, of course! Olivia was planning to make those figurines of hers that people liked so much, getting some local potter to fire them and then selling through Amelia’s new venture. Bird life, animal life, flora and fauna, and those delicate figures of dancers that went so well in exclusive galleries in London and New York and which, as yet, none of the other modellers at Drayton’s had produced quite so exquisitely.

  He admitted that now, but reluctantly. Whole consignments of what he considered admirable replicas, made since her departure, had been rejected by more than one long-established dealer and the only thing to do with them was to sell them off cheaply to lesser ones. The financial loss didn’t bear thinking of. Nor could Drayton’s now continue with that new line of character figures Olivia had launched shortly before he took control — Nelson, Napoleon, the Kings and Queens of England and Scotland, men of renown and women of fame forming a whole pageant of history. The last batch had been snapped up and orders had poured in from all quarters. None could now be fulfilled because no one could equal Olivia’s brilliance. On top of this, there was unrest amongst the modellers because he complained incessantly that their work no longer came up to scratch.

  But perhaps there was a ray of hope after all. If Olivia’s work was to be sold through the agency of the Martin Drayton Museum, which would no doubt be glad of additional finance, it would be a source of supply ready to hand. He wouldn’t reveal he was the buyer, of course; the purchasers could be made through a third party. Orders substantial enough to cover her entire output would safeguard against rival purchases. He would have a monopoly. The idea pleased him so much that he wanted to shout to the world, ‘Who says now that Lionel Drayton doesn’t know how to run a successful industry? Who says he isn’t astute?’

  Excitement was deflated when Meg Tinsley’s voice echoed in his mind. ‘…it should be easy t’find another chief turner in a place like Burslem.’ Turners were only needed in potteries. Their services were confined to receptacles. Models of any kind had no need of them so, plainly, Meg was going to work in a rival pot bank, an enterprise in competition with his own. How typically cunning of those two women to entice Meg Tinsley away from her secure job at Drayton’s…secretly…furtively.

  The thought outraged him, and anger gathered momentum even though he reminded himself that two women setting themselves up as potters were doomed to failure, particularly when only one could rightly call herself that. The ceramic trade was a man’s world in which women were predominantly labourers, such occupations as modelling and decorating being the only spheres offering other opportunities. They might rise to being in charge of individual sheds, as Meg Tinsley and that tiresome cousin of his had done, but never to the rank of employer; never on a par with master potters. Amelia had only achieved her former position through her marriage to Martin Drayton. She had made herself indispensable to him; her husband’s shadow, his devoted wife.

  As for Olivia, she must have played on Damian Fletcher’s feelings to have won his support for this new and ridiculous notion — if indeed Meg Tinsley’s hint was founded on fact. He found himself snatching at straws, telling himself that the woman might have been bluffing, blurting out the words to conceal the identity of the rival potter who had really lured her away.

  But what if it were true? If Oliva had persuaded Amelia to join forces with her, and then persuaded Damian Fletcher to back them, the man could only be humouring her. Surely he must realize that the idea could only be a whim prompted by pique?

  He decided to dismiss the whole thing with amused indulgence. And yet…if it were true…how well the secret had been kept! The sheer audacity of it re-sparked his fury. Unlike the reopening of the Drayton Museum on a prominent Burslem site, this other venture had been launched so quietly that no one knew a thing about it.

  Except his mother. That must have been what she was babbling about last night! But how had she found out, living her isolated life amidst the isolated splendour of Tremain Hall?

  He wished now that he had heeded her prattle, tedious as it always was, because he might have learned a thing or two and been spared the shock of losing a highly skilled turner. Although disliking Meg Tinsley, he knew it would be difficult to find someone to equal her. Abby had a long way to go before reaching Meg’s standard, although he had had her in mind when declaring that he would have to look no further than this very pottery for a successor.

  And of late Abby had not been concentrating on her work as formerly, so it had suffered. He knew the reason for that and it pleased him rather than concerned him because it was entirely due to her obsession for himself. The termination of his present dalliance rested entirely with him and he had not yet tired of her. She was an obliging little thing, a lusty little thing, and a few baubles, a few trinkets, and an occasional silver coin, kept alive her devotion. The gold coin could wait until he decided to end the affair; a final reward, a last generous gesture. She would accept it in ecstasy and tears, and he would be rid of her.

  Meanwhile, he now had other things to think about. He had to find out what was going on — and where. The only way was to visit the new museum and, if Amelia were there, question her point blank. If she were not there then perhaps Deborah Kendall would be, and that would be even better. After losing ground wi
th his pretty cousin, he was anxious to repair broken bridges.

  His impulse was to go there at once, but ever since the kiln disaster and his subsequent insistence on tracing the cause and the person responsible, he had become aware of the watchfulness of his workers. It even seemed to border on antagonism. Although he had called a halt to the abortive search the minute Olivia had left the pottery, this attitude seemed unchanged. Even Dave Jefferson, that able young man whom he wanted and needed as an ally, had become guarded in his manner; civil, speaking when spoken to, but nothing more than that.

  He had had his eye on Dave from the beginning, seeing him as a possible candidate for the position of deputy, a much-needed manager to run the place in his absence. As yet, he had had no opportunity to absent himself at all, no chance to indulge his taste for horse-racing and bear-baiting and cock-fighting, all of which were well catered for throughout the surrounding countryside. To be so bound to a trade for which he really had little taste was becoming irksome, and to be aware of surly acceptance rather than respect from those under him was something he had not anticipated and was now increasingly resenting.

  In see-saw fashion he had fallen into the habit of alternately seeking to placate or bully his employees, playing the part of either a kindly patron or a stern master. Either way, he was left with a sense of failure and then arrogance would drive him to demonstrate that he, Lionel Drayton, was lord and master here. He was the one and only Drayton left to rule the famous Drayton Pottery and they had best remember that. This establishment was his by right and his will had to be obeyed.

  And obey it they did, but mutinously, which indicated how unwise his late uncle had been in indulging them and, even worse, how badly the subsequent womanish rule had undermined his own.