by Rona Randall
‘All the more reason for me t’stay on at Drayton’s. I can’t do nothink about her work, but I can keep me eyes open. That’s why I said yes when Master Potter sent for me t’other day an’ made me Overseer. Willis be right glad t’be Chief Thrower again, an’ I’d be glad t’go on being Chief Glazer, but in the new job I’ll be able t’see a lot more an’ find out things…’
Things he didn’t really want to know, but which had to be faced. What puzzled him was where and when Abby obliged the Master Potter. Although finding out would be painful, he regarded Abby as his love and therefore his responsibility and until she told him to get out of her life he was determined to remain in it. But that was something he didn’t want to discuss, so he turned to the new development at Drayton’s. The Master Potter had sent for him not merely to offer him promotion.
‘You have been here a long time, haven’t you, Jefferson?’
‘Aye, sir. Man an’ boy.’
‘And you were taken into the late Master’s confidence about many things?’
‘No more’n anybody else, sir. Master Martin never had no secrets.’
‘I don’t mean secrets. I mean matters pertaining to the pot bank: plans; schemes; developments. Like new extensions, new buildings…?’
‘He were a very open man, were Master Martin.’
‘So you knew about the storage cellar he was planning?’
‘’T’were already planned, sir.’
‘Drawings? Costs? Full details?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘Did you ever see the drawings?’
‘Aye — once. Master Martin showed ’em t’many of us, wanting to know what we thought o’ the scheme.’
‘Then why did he abandon it?’
‘Master Kendall advised agin it. Risk of flooding from the canal during heavy rains. We gets a lot of ’em in these parts, sir.’
‘I know, I know but as for flooding, safeguards could have been taken.’
‘Aye, sir, but not worth t’cost. Leastways, that’s wot I ’eard tell.’
Lionel Drayton had dismissed that as unnecessary pessimism. ‘Perishable goods could be damaged by water, but not pottery. In any case, properly built and properly protected against seepage, the risk would be minimal. We must find those drawings, Jefferson. What my late uncle was afraid to do, I will do. This pottery will have the best underground storage in Staffordshire, thus releasing buildings above ground to be used beneficially.’ He had then asked casually whether Dave knew what had happened to the drawings.
‘Last time I seed ’em, sir, ’t’were in that small office Master Martin used. He were paying out our wages an’ I were last in line. Master told me to bide a bit because he ’ad summat to show me. ’T’were Master Kendall’s plans. Not that I understood ’em much; a maze of lines’n figures they were. “All that work for nothing,” Master Martin said, sounding disappointed, “but Simon Kendall never minds how much work he puts in an’ won’t take a penny payment for all this. I’d go ahead, but he warns against it.”’
‘And did you see what he did with the drawings? Was he still looking at them when you left?’
‘No, sir. He’d rolled ’em up and put ’em in a drawer of that old desk ’e allus used. “This desk has belonged to the Drayton family for centuries.” Master Martin useter say that often, proudlike —’
‘Yes, yes — and thank you, Jefferson. That will be all, and good night to you.’ Looking pleased, Lionel Drayton had then finished, ‘Stay with me, Jefferson, and we will go a long way together.’
Stay with him? Why had the man said that? Was he afraid that other valuable clay workers would be following Meg Tinsley’s example?
Now the cellar construction was already being put in hand. An even larger one. Only this morning a new designer had been summoned from Stoke and plans were afoot for an additional room down there. ‘Can’t see the sense in that, I can’t,’ Dave told Meg as he related the tale. ‘It’s t’be a smaller room with a lock on the door. I wonder what ’e be planning t’use that for…’
Chapter 12
It seemed to Miguel that although he now saw more of Deborah, he actually saw less. There were no more accidental meetings in the early morning, but plenty of contrived ones because he always knew where he could find her. This was a big advance in one way, but frustrating in another since he never saw her alone.
He was aware that she was the first to arrive at the new pottery each morning because she had only to head for the valley as soon as she had breakfasted. This brisk walk had replaced her customary early morning canter. Soon after Deborah, either Olivia or Meg would arrive, Olivia driving her spanking little gig and Meg on Joss Barlow’s plodding mare. Either simultaneously or hard on their heels would come the nucleus of workers now employed at the Ashburton Pottery, whose number would plainly increase.
This new routine meant that Deborah now had little time for cross-country riding except on the Sabbath when the pottery closed. It was then sandwiched between family prayers and other Sunday rituals and therefore unpredictably timed, which meant that Miguel had no way of knowing what direction she would take, or at what time, or whether she would ride near Tremain at all. The anticipation of waiting for her and sharing uninterrupted moments with her was now lost to him. He had to be content with seeing her only in the presence of others.
But he had acquainted himself thoroughly with the new routine of her life. He knew that she unlocked the pottery each morning and then allocated the morning’s quota of clay for various requirements. By the time this was done Meg would have arrived and together they would start wedging it. As additional workers were recruited and the pottery’s payroll extended she was able to delegate this preliminary work and to concentrate more on her own, with Olivia equally absorbed at her modelling stand and Amelia arriving from Medlar Croft mid-morning to deal with office demands. All Miguel had to do was to indulge his interest in the pottery by dropping in at various times, but he had to suppress the temptation to do it too often. He could then linger in Deborah’s vicinity, watching as she worked. And with that he had to be content.
It wasn’t enough, but even reminding himself that any other man would press his attentions without fear of rebuff failed to overcome his shyness. Deborah liked him, was perhaps even fond of him, and he was afraid of jeopardizing that tenuous relationship by trying to force it into something more. He could only console himself with the thought that at least he had no particular rival, that none of the men who pursued her at local events and monopolized her at hunt balls had a prior stake in her affections. So he must continue to wait, and hope.
Two months after the pottery opened, sufficient stock had been built up for a full earthenware firing. Stoneware, requiring as high a temperature as porcelain, had to wait until a requisite number of stoneware pieces had been produced. This meant that Deborah’s wall sundial, even after it reached the bone-dry stage, still had to wait. Meanwhile, she was developing other ideas, encouraged by Olivia who had no doubts about the appeal of these primitive designs with their pronounced Mexican influence, but other people, especially dealers who expected to see repetitious conventional ware, viewed this new line with mixed feelings; puzzled, intrigued, or frankly not in favour. Who, they said, would want to buy what they considered to be crude symbols of some ancient culture?
Others disagreed, arguing that sophisticated taste would be delighted with them and that artistic circles in London and major cities would welcome them. All were agreed that they would certainly be a change from mass-produced designs of flowers and fruit and the usual emblems.
If it had not been for Olivia, who countered criticism with: ‘Wait until they are glazed, wait until they are fired, wait until you see the rare whiteness of the clay…’, Deborah might well have lost heart. She was too new to the work to be confident of her talent.
Then Jessica offered further encouragement by suggesting that she and Miguel should browse in Ashburton’s extensive library, where they could study volu
mes on anthropological art which could supplement the designs gleaned from his mother’s domestic items and her few pieces of native jewellery.
‘I well remember coming to Ashburton to catalogue the Armstrong library, and the valuable research Martin put in there when he began as a lone potter. That was one of the several ways in which dear Sir Neville helped my brother to get started. The volumes on oriental ceramics that inspired him are still there, and there are others on South American cultures that could do the same for Deborah, with your help, Miguel.’
He thought it incredibly fortunate that her mother should unintentionally give him this opportunity to spend time alone with her daughter, and when Deborah joined him one day — the first time they had been alone together since the Ashburton Pottery was launched — he felt, for the first time, that she had joined him because she wanted to and that the study of Mexican motifs was not the only reason.
Miguel was determined to become the owner of her sundial, and knew exactly where he would place it at Tremain — on a wall beside the entrance to the Heir’s Wing, his own. There he would be able to see it every day and reach up and touch it, tracing the intricacies of a cylindrical border from Guerrero, featured on a copper necklace of his mother’s, into which Deborah had skilfully interwoven the mask of Ehecatl, the wind god, and Tlaloc, the rain god, with wild game birds on the wing as a centrepiece. The combination made an original and somehow apt design for a sundial and although she would undoubtedly produce better work with experience, he would treasure this one not only because it was her first, but because it had brought them together, if not in the way he desired.
The association was better than nothing, however. She now sought his opinion on preliminary sketches, some of which she discarded and some of which she saved for further development, with still others set aside to feature in future projects.
‘But only if you like them will I use them,’ she said one day.
‘Surely the test is whether others will like them enough to buy them?’
‘Don’t you think they will?’ she asked anxiously.
‘How can I say? It may be because I am half Mexican that these designs appeal to me.’
‘But whether they will appeal to the English is another matter? That is what some think; I have seen it in their eyes, hastily concealed for my sake.’
‘Someone specifically?’
‘Cousin Lionel. I’m quite sure he doesn’t like it, though he declares that he does. He is very amiable these days. He makes me feel almost guilty for turning against him.’
Had she really turned against him, or had her swift resentment over his treatment of Amelia been overcome by his determination to win her over? His frequent and apparently casual visits to Ashburton had not escaped Miguel and made him wonder how many other times he passed this way. He could not resist asking.
‘Does he come here often? I would have expected otherwise following your father’s refusal to supply Drayton’s with the new grinding powder.’
‘Lionel seems to have forgotten that, and I must say he accepted the decision very well. Not a word of reproach, no hint of resentment. He seems incapable of harbouring malice. Perhaps he isn’t as bad as we think. Perhaps we have misjudged him. He has behaved thoughtlessly, yes, but he does have much to occupy his mind these days. Have you heard that he is building a storage cellar at Drayton’s? Papa declares that it is folly, but Lionel insists that a new set of plans overcomes earlier uncertainties.’
‘And what does your father say?’
‘That to be convinced he would have to see the new plans and that anything redesigned at such speed must be suspect. I felt quite sorry for Lionel when Papa said that.’
‘I would back your father’s opinion.’
‘All the same — poor Lionel. One must admit that he is trying hard to make a success of things.’
‘By getting rid of people who have devoted their lives to the place?’
‘Miguel! I have never heard that note in your voice before. He insists that he had no intention of hurting Amelia but acted in what he honestly believed were her best interests. I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘And what of Olivia?’
‘She seems to have forgiven and forgotten.’
And have you? he wanted to ask but, fearing that his voice would betray him, Miguel said nothing. When Deborah made a list of page numbers, closed the volumes, and rewarded him with a brilliant smile, his depression lifted slightly; even more when she kissed his cheek spontaneously and declared he was the best friend she had, then danced away, saying over her shoulder that he absolutely must stay to supper and looking quite disconsolate when he declined.
Much as he wanted to accept the invitation, he felt that he was perhaps neglecting his father a little too much these days. Sometimes the old man was quite tetchy when he returned after a long absence at Ashburton. ‘It’s nice to know I have a son after all,’ he would growl, and Miguel would make up for his neglect by playing endless games of backgammon with him — taking care to let him win — and then lull his sense of duty further by visiting Aunt Agatha to say good-night. Sometimes that made her quite tearful and he felt then that she was wishing he were her son…that dear, devoted son who was plainly pursuing Deborah and to whom Deborah, in return, was seemingly too forgiving.
*
Although Olivia appeared to have forgiven and forgotten, she had not, and Lionel was well aware of it. He had only to meet her in passing to realize that despite her polite and amiable greeting she disliked him as much as she had done from childhood. When he troubled to reflect on it, it amused him, but these days he had little time in which to think about anything other than the cellar construction that he was hastily putting in hand. No time had been wasted in approving the new plans; he had scarcely glanced at the details, so impatient was he for completion. The builder from Stoke obviously knew what he was doing and, being newly launched as an independent contractor, would be doubly conscientious because he had his reputation to think of. All this, to Lionel, was reassuring.
And really the plan was so much better than the one drawn up by Simon Kendall, who must be getting past things, at his age. The new one was so simple, too; just one single drawing instead of all those unnecessary ones from a variety of aspects and angles, showing varying levels and elaborating on details and measurements. All that was meaningless to a layman, and in this respect Lionel freely confessed to being one. He was therefore a great deal happier dealing with a builder who didn’t expect him to ask questions, much less to understand the answers. Each man to his own allotted task, Lionel thought complacently. That made life much simpler.
It seemed that in no time at all the area was dug out and the foundations laid. Naturally, since he was paying the bill, Lionel inspected every stage and it all appeared to be satisfactory. The builder assured him that great care was being taken to fortify the walls with doubly strong brickwork, so there could be no doubt about the safety factor.
Everyone took an interest in the procedure, including Dave Jefferson who, to Lionel’s surprise, made no comment at all. When the steps were built — wooden, to save labour and costs, but of course guaranteed to be sound — Lionel invited his deputy to descend with him and inspect the whole area. Still silent, Dave did so, pausing only to ask what the smaller room was intended for.
‘For storing the most valuable pieces, of course. The finest Draytonware will be locked in there.’
‘But no piece is more valuable than another, sir. Not at Drayton’s. We make utility products —’
‘And fine china. And porcelain. You should be proud of our finest products, Jefferson.’
‘I am, sir. But since no one’s ever pilfered them why expect it now? And locks can be broken, sir.’
‘Not the one I have chosen for this door. Wait until you see it.’
With that, Lionel ordered the man back to work. Sometimes he sensed, or suspected, an underlying note in his foreman’s manner, a veiled suggesti
on of criticism or even dislike, but the latter idea was immediately dismissed. Lionel decided that he was becoming too sensitive, imagining hostility where none existed. He had overcome all that earlier trouble and could now forget it.
Turning to more pleasurable things, he thought of Abby and how surprised she would be when she first visited that inner room. For a long time he had been pondering on the best place to rendezvous with her. Once or twice he had allowed her to visit Carrion House, but only when the servants were abed, when she could slip down the side lane and through the kitchen entrance. Even that was risky. Although the domestic staff slept in the attics, one never knew; sounds might be heard and an inquisitive or apprehensive servant creep downstairs to check on the cause.
Besides, his home was really too good for the likes of Abby, the daughter of Burslem’s loosest woman. Kate was a familiar sight to Lionel, as she was to all the men around, her raddled face, coarse manner and gaudy clothes plainly advertising her trade. Lionel had no desire for a woman like that to present herself at the door of Carrion House, demanding money for her daughter’s services or threatening to tell the world about the girl’s secret visits there. Not even that shabby garden house in which his father had met his death was safe enough.
And, illogically, there was another reason for disliking the thought of Abby Walker becoming a familiar guest in his home — it was the thought that she would be preceding Deborah Kendall who, he was beginning to hope, might occupy his bed permanently. There was no law against the marriage of first cousins, nor did the Church forbid it although, illogically it seemed to him, it forbade the union of some less close relationships.
There was something challenging about Deborah; her insouciance, her independence, her charm, her casual air, her occasional flares of defiance, her impetuosity, her warmth, her gaiety — all these characteristics suggested passion. Making love to her would be very different from satisfying himself with a silly little whore who was pleased with a few baubles.