by Rona Randall
She plunged down the wooden cellar steps. They’d always seemed rickety and more so today. Halfway down they were sodden. A tread broke loudly beneath her feet and the whole staircase came away, hurling her into a morass of water and mud. Silt filled her mouth and turned her screaming into terrified choking. Pain pierced her legs. Floundering, she tried to stand, only to plunge again into rising water. Dear God, she would drown! She would choke to death! She would be trapped — she was trapped! Wildly, she clutched at floating slats of wood and groped blindly for a foothold to climb out of this nauseous place. Pitifully, she continued with her futile screaming and in roaring ears her voice vibrated — unfamiliar, frantic, gasping on searing breaths but somehow producing a sound which was meant to be Dave’s name, but only she, in this underground hell, could hear it.
Chapter 15
Lionel wasted no time in preparing to leave, although the pottery wasn’t due to close for another two hours. No doubt there would be the usual sullen glances from workers who saw him depart, and the usual comment, from those bold enough to make it, that no Master of Drayton’s had ever left so early, and he would resolve yet again that this increasing insolence would earn immediate dismissal, without pay.
He had already resorted to that in several cases and the only thing that made him hesitate now was his inability to find replacements. He had expected that to be easy, in the heart of the potteries, but the only ones he had been able to find were the idle or the inefficient, turned off by others. No expert hands seemed willing to work for Drayton’s now, and those who remained resented the extra demands made on them. It wasn’t their fault that production was falling off, they protested. Time was when every man and woman here was willing to work unflaggingly; time was when every extra hour put in and every extra load completed was appreciated and rewarded accordingly. Not now. The number of dissatisfied Drayton workers seeking employment elsewhere was increasing.
Thankfully, he reflected that he would have time enough to worry about all that when he reached home and relaxed with his customary glass of Madeira before changing into the fine linen laid out for him. As for what he would wear tonight — always an important consideration — there was his favourite ensemble of amber brocade with gold cloth lining and gilded buttons, and breeches of amber satin fastening at the knee above silken hose with a golden sheen. Such elegance was somewhat wasted when supping alone, but tonight he was in no mood for company and saw no reason why he shouldn’t indulge in an elaborate toilet for the sheer pleasure of it.
He hoped his valet proved to be up to scratch this evening. If dear Mama had been on one of her visits, poking and prying into his closets in the hope of finding imperfections to which she could immediately draw the man’s attention, then he would have nothing to worry about. He had to give her credit for knowing what she was about when it came to supervising his wardrobe. His valet resented her interference, but had to put up with it. He himself was well-content to let her meddle in that way — but not in others.
One thing he did not intend to do tonight was to regret his dismissal and keep his promise to that tiresome chit, Abby. Let her trot down to the cellar if she wished; it would do her good to wait in vain. It would drive home the fact that he meant what he said. There was a time to end things, and he had ended them, and felt remarkably free as a result. And he would make sure that she did go to join her mother. He would provide the fare, and a gift or two, and see that an inside seat was reserved on the next stage coach so that she travelled in style. The silly little thing would like that. ‘Ever so grand!’ she would think, prinking and perking all the way to Nottingham while he sat back and viewed his future with satisfaction — free and unfettered and with all the time in the world to turn his attention to pretty Deb.
The thought that he was rid of little Abby Walker was gratifying. He had let the affair drag on too long, allowing her to become too sure of herself.
He felt singularly complacent as he prepared to leave the pottery. He could even smile at the thought of Joss Barlow believing that the Walker girl had been seduced by the Master of Drayton’s and that a man of such standing would want her to be housed in that miserable shack to await his pleasure. Anyone would laugh aloud at such a tale and he had been foolish to allow it to cause one moment’s apprehension.
No matter. The whole business was over now, and he could make his way home through this filthy weather and relax beside a fire, his bag wig thrown aside, his hair flowing free, a glass beside him and a well-cooked meal awaiting him. After that, he would turn his attention to the new plans for that tawdry withdrawing room which he could rarely enter without seeing his aunt’s raddled face, with its dimples and its carmined cheeks and its kohled eyelids. Sometimes, but not often, he recalled it as it had been when he last saw it — staring up at him, eyes bulging, tongue lolling. Not a pretty sight. Phoebe, who relished her looks, would have hated it.
Perhaps, when the decor was changed, the picture would be finally banished and his increasing reluctance to enter that room would cease.
He pushed aside the ledger with which he had been trying to get to grips. He could try again tomorrow; similarly with all the others presenting the same depressing story. Orders were dropping and takings correspondingly diminishing. It was only a phase, of course. A temporary setback. No more than a taste of the doldrums. They occurred in all industries. Things would pull up again. A name like Drayton’s could stand on its merits without fear.
As for heeding his foreman’s tale about the success of Ashburton’s new stoneware clay — how absurd! And how could Dave Jefferson, who reported that the kiln had been broached today, have heard about it? It was impossible to believe that within a few hours other Staffordshire potters were making inquiries about Ashburton’s stoneware. How could the news have circulated so swiftly?
‘Through Ben Fowler, sir — one of the Red Lion’s ostlers. He were hired to give a hand at the Ashburton stables today, one o’ their lads being took sick. Fowler bumped into Meg Tinsley. She’s well set up there, in a cottage of her own an’ a well-paid job into the bargain —’
‘What concern is that of mine? Get on with your tale.’
‘Well, sir, everyone’s agog with the news an’ Meg took Ben along to see some of the stuff. The man says it be like nothing ever seed in Burslem afore.’
‘And how would a mere ostler know that?’
Ignoring the question, Jefferson had run straight on.
‘Soon other potters were heading out to Ashburton to see it, and no one said them nay. All declared they’d never seen nothink like it. We’d best be thinking up some new clay mixture or some new glaze recipe if we’re to hold our own. New glazes be what I want to specialize in, sir, as ye know.’
‘Time enough for that. There’s no hurry. As for this new stoneware, it may well be just a flash in the pan.’
Jefferson had donned his mulish expression, the one with which Drayton’s Master Potter was becoming increasingly familiar, and said, ‘I doubts it, sir. Master Kendall ain’t prone to mistakes. Only successes.’
Insolent. Like so many more. Go home and forget about them, Lionel told himself. Deal with them in the morning. Show them then who is master. Meanwhile, put them out of your mind. And to assist in the process why not go to Ashburton to see the new sensation and assess the danger or competition of it? He had ample excuse — he would be calling to collect Deborah’s sundial.
Pleased with the decision, Lionel donned cloak and tall-crowned hat and was preparing to open the door when a slowly gathering murmur swelled to a roar, culminating immediately outside. Voices were shouting his name — ugly, threatening. Something struck the door and bounced off. Other missiles followed.
Wood splintered as panels shattered. Stones and debris hurtled through. When a brick narrowly missed him, he backed away, uncertain what to do. He had to exit through that door because there was no other…but what sort of an escape would it be?
The door crashed open and on the threshold stood D
ave Jefferson carrying a bedraggled body in his arms. Its slightness, its fragility, its thinness, all were sickeningly familiar although beneath a caking of mud and a tangled mass of wet hair the face was unrecognizable. Then he saw a broken bracelet clinging to a bloodied wrist…and the legs streaked with blood were also familiar…too damned familiar. And there was no mistaking that torn bodice…she had been proud of it, strutting up and down with her young breasts outlined through its thin fabric and her rough Midland voice piping, ‘Why shouldn’t I wear it t’work, Master Potter? Wot do I care wot folk think? I be sick o’ potter’s slops. Make me look just like the rest of ’em, they do, an’ that I ain’t. Not no more!’
A voice said urgently, ‘Put her here, Dave…’ and through his bewilderment Lionel saw Deborah Kendall pull forward his splendid, comfortably upholstered chair. That startled him. What was his cousin doing here? When had she arrived, and why? And how did she come to be embroiled with the rebellious mob who now crowded into the room armed with sticks and anything else they could lay their hands on? One or two still carried heavy bricks and some even potters’ knives, but once within the room their angry voices were hushed.
‘Someone fetch a doctor — quickly. Take my horse. And bring the man back with you — tell him she is cut about the legs and feet and bleeding badly and she has plainly gulped a lot of water, but she’s alive, thank God —’ As someone dived for the door and raced off, Deborah turned to Lionel. ‘I need bandages…water and towels…quickly,’ and when he stood there ineffectively she threw him a furious glance. ‘In God’s name, have you medical supplies of no kind to hand?’
‘Water’s coming, M’s Debra!’ One of the women from the turners’ shed pushed her way through, water spilling. Over her arm was a cloth of some kind. The well water was clean but the cloth was clay-soiled. Deborah wiped the heaviest dirt off Abby’s face and pushed back the matted hair. The girl’s eyes flickered. She whimpered. Deborah murmured, ‘You’re all right, Abby…you’re safe…you’re not down in that filthy place any more…’
The words jerked Lionel to attention. Down in that place…? Hell’s teeth, what had happened there and who had found her?
Deborah cast the cloth aside and ordered her cousin to take off his shirt. ‘If you can’t produce clean cloths, then I’ll use pieces torn from anything that is clean — and your shirt is obviously the only one to hand.’ She waited, and when he tried to bluster she grew impatient. ‘If you won’t oblige, then I’m afraid these men will force you to.’
Clutching at dignity, he managed to say, ‘Do you think a man in my position doesn’t supply all necessities? Everything you need is in that cupboard over there.’
It was Dave Jefferson who fetched some of the Master’s monogrammed towels, carefully selecting a new one. After passing it to Deborah, his eloquent glance met Lionel’s. ‘When doctor’s dealt with Abby,’ he said firmly, ‘we’ll get round to dealing with thee. Ye’ve a deal to answer for and every man of us is here to see that ye do. Then we’ll decide what’s t’be done about it.’
‘My good man, I haven’t the faintest notion of what you are talking —’
A protest from one of the mob silenced him, a protest taken up by everyone within earshot and echoed by those who were not. The note of disbelief increased to a growl, stirring something stronger than uneasiness in the Master Potter’s mind. Only now did he recall stories he had heard of rebellions in the potteries…of angry workers, who could stand no more, turning on their slave-driving masters and smashing wheels and modelling stands and tools of all kinds…of men and women driven by fits of demented rage…of mutiny when harsh punishments were meted out to those who fell asleep over their benches because they were unequal to the excessive working hours…even the case, for ever to be recorded in the history of the potteries, of the woman who died after being flogged by her master because she had failed to produce the number of pots expected of her that day. That had led to unprecedented violence, total wreckage of the establishment, a near lynching of the Master Potter and jail sentences for all.
Lionel thrust down his sickening uneasiness with the reflection that such things had never happened at Drayton’s and were never likely to. Conditions and wages here were better than any clay worker could get elsewhere. There wasn’t a man in this room who would jeopardize his livelihood just because a stupid girl had met with a mishap.
But their mood was still ugly. Silence prevailed while Deborah tended the girl. Dave Jefferson cradled her head and when she tried to talk he said gently, ‘Not yet, Abby luv. Not yet. When doctor’s been, p’raps, but there’s now’t as can’t wait ’til morning…’ Then, beneath his breath to the Master Potter, ‘Other things won’t keep…other things’ll be dealt with afore this night’s out.’
The waiting seemed long, but eventually the doctor arrived. Lionel was relieved when the man ordered everyone out except Deborah, but not so pleased when it was assumed that he would go too. If he did, the mob would be waiting and they were still in a mood to carry out their own rough justice. So he insisted on remaining out of concern for the girl. ‘I am her employer. I am responsible for everyone and I take those responsibilities seriously. When you have attended to her, I will personally take her home. My carriage is outside.’
So he remained, but so did Dave Jefferson who, after following the others to the door, then slipped quietly into a corner and remained there.
When the examination was over the doctor assured Deborah that the girl was young enough to recover speedily; the cuts, ugly as they were, would heal well.
‘But I would like to know how she got them. Some were full of splinters.’
The Master Potter gave Deborah no chance to speak.
‘She must have fallen down some wooden steps in the rain,’ he said. ‘No doubt they were wet and caused her to slip.’
‘Dangerous things, wooden steps. I didn’t know you had such things in potteries. I thought all workshops were at ground level.’
‘So they are, but we utilize roof space for stores, so the use of ladders is necessary.’
‘Then how did the child get soaked? She’s been half-drowned.’
‘Store-rooms are on the canal bank. The earth there is a quagmire since the rains came. No doubt she ran and slipped in the mud.’
‘I thought you said it happened on wooden steps?’
‘I can see no other explanation for the cuts and splinters, but what I am trying to account for now is her drenched condition. Mud and slime would soak anyone who fell while hurrying through torrential rain.’
The doctor pursed his lips thoughtfully and seemed about to nod his agreement when Dave burst out, ‘It be a bloody lie! That damned cellar’s flooded an’ the steps caved in, but did the Master Potter trouble t’find out? That he did not!’
‘Cellar?’ echoed the doctor. ‘What cellar?’
Dave blazed, ‘The one the late Master wouldn’t build because of the risk of seepage from the canal, but this man went ahead an’ built on the cheap as a hideout! Called it a storage cellar, but I know what else were stored down there. I know what that extra room were used for an’ why Abby went there! Take another look at her. Scarce fourteen she is, with a mother that’s allus been bad an’ now clears off, leaving ’er daughter for a Master Potter t’do what he likes with!’
Lionel Drayton threw back his head and laughed. ‘You can’t believe the prattle of a besotted youth —!’
The doctor, sensing something with which he had no desire to become involved, murmured something inaudible and tried to slip away, unnoticed, as Deborah demanded of Dave, ‘Kate Walker has gone?’
‘Aye, M’s Debra.’
‘Then who will look after Abby? She can’t be left alone in this state!’
‘Meg Tinsley, ma’am. She’s allus wanted to. I’ll be taking Abby there right away —’
‘No. I will. You have unfinished business here.’ With one swift movement Deborah wrenched Lionel’s cloak from his shoulders. ‘I’m taking your carria
ge as well. You can use my horse in exchange — when those men have finished with you.’
She wrapped Abby in the cloak and Dave carried her outside. Deborah thanked the doctor and reminded him to send his bill to the Master of the Drayton Pottery. At the door she spared one last word for Lionel.
‘What happened to your mother at Carrion House today?’
He snapped, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about her hurrying away from the place, seemingly in a state of shock. I was riding by, and saw her.’
‘Then why didn’t you stop her?’
‘I couldn’t. She was quickly into her carriage and away.’
‘And I was here, hard at work, so how could I even know she’d been to my house? If she’d been paying one of her busy-body visits, upsetting the servants, perhaps she’d got the worst of it. And serve her right.’
Deborah cast him a contemptuous glance, and left. The doctor was already driving away. Picking up the reins, she glanced back and saw Lionel Drayton standing in the open door, his way blocked by mutineering workers and Dave, with one strong hand, firmly propelling him back inside. The men followed. The door closed. She drove away as fast as safety and relentless rain permitted.
Chapter 16
On the following day, the whole of Burslem buzzed with gossip. Garbled stories passed from mouth to mouth, distorted in the process. The workers had gone berserk, some said. They had run amok, wrecking everything in sight. They had attacked the Master Potter, beaten him, injured him, kicked him and spat on him. They had smashed the latest consignment from the kilns and done the same to valuable loads bound for major cities at home and abroad. They had behaved like savages, charging through the place like ravening wolves and howling in packs. They had dumped sacks of glaze oxides in the canal and scattered rutile and copper manganese and other valuable chemical ingredients to the winds. They had set fire to bales of straw and hazel-wood crates, then run with flaming torches through the whole place, setting alight storage sheds and workshops…and in the fracas people had been drowned in flooded cellars… Finally, the Master Potter’s injured body had been thrown down there, with the pack howling for his blood. Jail cells would be full before this day was out.