The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  Serve them right, said those who condemned such behaviour. They deserved rewards, said others who praised it.

  The tales gathered momentum, spreading from village to village. Soon the curious were heading for the pottery anxious to see for themselves the damning evidence of violence and revolt.

  They were disappointed to find the place looking just the same, with workers going about their business and the only signs of disorder being a stack of wet rubble in the potters’ yard, brought up from some cellar. But it were strange stuff to come out of a potter’s cellar; sodden carpets and cushions and suchlike. Must have been from the Master Potter’s office. It were well known that Lionel Drayton had furnished that place in style. Obviously, the heavy rain had penetrated and spoiled all of them lovely things, and weren’t that a crying shame…?

  And old Peterson, the gatekeeper, wasn’t much help. All he did was keep his mouth shut, or growl, ‘Ain’t ye got nothink better t’do than gawp? Folks in this pottery mind their own business, so why don’t thee?’

  But one thing everybody did notice and agree on was the absence of the Master Potter’s carriage in the yard and the relentless look about his office door. Closed, it was, with that sort’ve locked look about it that doors have when remaining unopened.

  Everyone went away dissatisfied and asking who started all them rumours anyway? Packers were loading their crates in the yard, ready to cart down to the barges on the canalside; women were seen going in and out of the turners’ shed, carrying tray-loads of upturned pots to the drying-out quarters, and after the deluge of rain passed and the weather brightened other loads were lined up to dry in the sun. Rioting? There wasn’t a sign of it.

  But Drayton clay workers who dropped into the Red Lion for their nightly swig of Staffordshire ale shut up like clams when folk asked questions. ‘Now’t t’say,’ was their only reply when pumped, so that after a while the questions ceased. But that didn’t stop speculation, especially when a servant from Carrion House responded to a round of free drinks by revealing that his master were laid low and were likely to be for several days. But as to his malady, no information was forthcoming.

  *

  To Meg, her new home at Ashburton was now sealed with contentment. To Abby, it was a refuge to which she felt she had no right.

  ‘I’ll be gone an’ not bothering ye just as soon as me legs’ll let me,’ she said, sitting beside the window and gazing out on a scene more peaceful than she had ever imagined. The hovel alongside the Red Lion’s livery stables had looked out on manure heaps and barrel stores, both smelly. Here the scent of the countryside drifted through the open window, sweetening the air, and on the hob one of Meg’s stews, spiced with herbs, emitted an appetizing fragrance.

  ‘Don’t talk daft,’ said Meg, bluntly. ‘There be room for two of us in this place, an’ work for us at the Ashburton Pottery into the bargain.’

  ‘I’m no good at t’job no more. Told me so ’imself, when casting me off. Said me work ’ad dee-terior-summat.’

  ‘Deteriorated?’

  ‘Aye. That. Meanin’ it’d gone off an’ I were no use no more.’

  ‘The man’s a liar. Forget ’im.’

  ‘I can’t, Meg. I keeps remembering wot I were like afore I took up with ’im, an’ wot I be now…’

  ‘Ye’ve got to stop thinking that way, luv. Ye’ve got to do what I did — put it all behind ye. D’ye think I ain’t gone through it, too? Ask your ma, if ye ever sees ’er again, which I ’opes ye never does.’ Meg hesitated, then said resolutely, ‘There be one thing ye’d better know, Abby. I’ll tell ye now, then never again. I persuaded Kate t’go away.’

  Abby swung round. ‘I don’t believe it!’ She fell silent, looking at Meg’s honest face. ‘Why did ye? Why? Tell me.’

  ‘‘Cos she ain’t no good. She’d allus been bad for thee. I wanted t’take care of ye when ye were now’t but a babby; told Master Martin so, I did. He wanted to help, an’ so did Mistress ’Melia, but what chance ’ad anybody with that tartar Kate around? Nobody liked ’er, but everybody liked thee an’ wanted to protect ye. Then when she were all cock-a-hoop and boasting about the new Master Potter favouring thee, an’ t’were plain as a pikestaff what’d happen t’ye when ye were cast off, I knew I had t’do summat, an’ quick. So I did it. An’ I ain’t sorry.’ She finished gently. ‘I loves thee, Abby child. Everybody does. An’ so does Dave.’

  Abby said sadly, ‘Now ’e knows wot I’ve become ’e’ll look t’other way.’

  ‘Like ’e did when getting ye out of that damned place? D’ye know ’ow he did it, yelling for help while ’e grabbed a rope an’ got a coupla strong men to lower ’im on the end of it, then wound it around ye to haul ye up, an’ then ’imself, an’ wouldn’t let nobbody else carry ye to safety? An’ d’ye know how many times ’e’s ridden out from Burslem t’see ye this past week alone an’ ye’ve told me t’send ’im away? It be time ye stopped being cruel, Abby. Time ye saw how much he loves ye…’

  Looking down at her hands, twisting them in her lap, refusing to lift her eyes to Meg’s face, Abby whispered, ‘I do see it. I do know it. But I ain’t good enough for Dave. Not now, I ain’t. I take after me mam.’

  ‘That ye don’t. You’re Abby Walker, not Kate Walker, an’ when the day comes that ye be Abby Jefferson ye’ll put the past behind ye for ever. I be talking about what I knows, lass; what I’ve been through meself, so hark on it. You be still no more’n a child, a child misled an’ ill-treated. Ye need to heal, an’ ye will heal, an’ Dave’ll help ye. One day ye’ll be ready to be loved the way ye should be. ’Til then, live like I’ve lived since I lost my Frank. Take each day as it comes. That way, things’ll work out. But don’t turn your back on Dave —’

  ‘I tell ye, I ain’t good enough for ’im now!’

  ‘That be for Dave t’decide, an’ for thee to let ’im. Now get this stew inside ye an’ stop looking back over your shoulder. That never did nobbody any good. An’ this afternoon I’ll be taking ye down to the valley to visit the Ashburton Pottery, an’ ye can sit on a stool an’ pick up a turning tool again, an’ I swear that with me around ye’ll soon be good as ever. An’ then ye can start working alongside me, just like the old days.’

  ‘D’ye think they’ll reelly tak me on — M’s ’Melia an’ M’s ’Livia?’ Hope shone in Abby’s eyes.

  ‘I knows they will. They’ve said so. Now shut up, lass, an’ eat thy fill.’

  *

  News of the revolt reached Tremain Hall almost as speedily as it spread through the countryside. By mutual consent, Miguel and his father agreed to withhold it from Agatha, who had remained confined to her rooms for several days and, to her cook’s concern, scarcely touched the food he put before her.

  When visited by her brother, she was uncommunicative. With Miguel, she was slightly less so. She seemed to be touched by his concern. She even patted his hand and told him he was a dear boy and how fortunate his father was to have such a son, and tears filled her eyes as she said it. And then, even more uncharacteristically, she asked to be left alone.

  ‘She’s growing old,’ said Max. ‘Poor old Aggie. It’s a bad sign when she has no fancy for food. Pierre told me she sent back some oyster-mouth soup today, one of her favourites, and only toyed with a dish of china chilo. I’ve seen her shovel that down and demand more on many an occasion. Must be sickening for something. Perhaps a doctor should be fetched.’

  Agatha would see no doctor, but when Miguel suggested a game of backgammon she seemed almost grateful, so perhaps, he thought compassionately, the trouble is that she doesn’t really want to be left alone; perhaps it’s merely because the two of them, brother and sister, have never got along together.

  He thought of the household at Ashburton, filled with family life and affection, where married sons and daughters and small grandchildren were happy to visit; Deborah had been brought up in such an atmosphere and when she married, she would create it about her because that was the sort of life she had al
ways known and would always want. Tremain Hall would never have fallen into silence had real family life continued to fill it.

  He remembered the affection his grandparents had given him and the devotion they had had for each other, and how greatly he missed it after they had gone. How sad that the happiness of such a marriage as theirs had been found by only one of their children, Amelia. If Agatha had found it, too, it had been curtailed by the death of her husband. And of course his father’s had been an unhappy alliance lacking the love he had ultimately found in a far-off land.

  Agatha couldn’t concentrate on the game. She could make only monosyllabic answers and then drift into silence, her thoughts miles away. She had made valiant but pathetic attempts to preserve her looks, brightly rouging her cheeks and changing her gowns repeatedly, then summoning Rose to fill a hip bath for her and go through her toilet all over again.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with her, Master Miguel, that I don’t. Nothink I do pleases her for long. “Do this, do that,” she says, and “Get this, get that,” and when I do, she don’t want it. I wish Master Lionel could see how she is, but he hasn’t visited her for weeks. I’d send for him if she’d let me, but she won’t. Only this morning I suggested it, but “No!” she said, so sharp I were startled. Then she calmed down and said how busy he always was, and I fair wanted to cry because it seemed like she were pleading for him. “He has responsibilities, great responsibilities,” she said, “running the Drayton Pottery like his father before him…” Well, Master Miguel, that don’t stop the man from getting out and about and visiting other people in the neighbourhood. Many a supper party I’ve heard tell about from other domestic folk like myself, at houses in the neighbourhood and beyond, where Master Lionel’s a frequent guest…’

  While concentrating on the game and trying to get his aunt to do likewise, Miguel came to a sudden decision. He would drive over to Ashburton and confide in Jessica Kendall, ask her to come to see Agatha, seek her help. And perhaps he would be lucky enough to see Deborah, whom he was missing desperately and whom he had avoided since their last encounter. Was it really only a day or two ago that he had made a fool of himself down there in the library, complaining pettishly because he could not have something he coveted — like a child denied a longed-for toy — and then allowing his desire for her to overcome self-control? What a fool he had been…what a fool…

  But there was no need to remain so. It was up to him to put things right. If he could only regain their earlier companionship, he would be partially content.

  ‘You seem tired, Aunt Agatha. Shall I call for some tea? It always refreshes you.’

  ‘So long as you stay and have it with me, Miguel, it would be very nice. Taking tea alone is such a solitary business…’

  His hand was on the bell rope when Rose burst in, breathless and agitated.

  ‘Oh, ma’am — dreadful news — down at the Drayton Pottery — terrible trouble, some say riots! Leastways, the knife-grinder who calls at the kitchens each month says so, but cook told him to stop talking nonsense and be on his way, but I thought you should know, ma’am, seeing as how ’tis said that Master Lionel hasn’t been seen there since it all happened…’

  There had been a time when bad news sent Agatha Drayton into hysterics; now she just sat there, pale and silent. Miguel went to her and touched her shoulder, saying gently, ‘I’m sure it’s exaggerated, possibly untrue, but would you like me to go there and find out? Or would you like me to take you to Carrion House? Whatever I can do to help, you know I will.’

  She put up a plump, beringed hand and patted his, but the gesture was automatic, puppet-like. She seemed unaware of what she was doing, and looked neither at him nor her maid. There had been several moments like this during the past twenty-four hours. It was as if a mental shutter had been slammed between herself and the world.

  ‘Aunt Agatha — let me help you. Let me take you to him…’

  Slowly, her head turned. Sunken eyes in a pallid face looked up at him.

  In a dead voice she said, ‘No. Let him come to me. He will. He will have to.’

  Chapter 17

  Olivia had arrived at Ashburton that morning looking singularly happy and had remained so throughout the day. Once or twice Amelia had been tempted to ask why, but the rush of visitors to see the new stoneware left neither of them much time for conversation. Within a few hours of the final piece emerging from the kiln, the curiosity of neighbouring potters had started the onrushing tide.

  Scepticism had turned to admiration and admiration to envy when they saw the new clay. Few were surprised when told that it would not be marketed. This stoneware was to be the specialist product of the Ashburton Pottery, the cornerstone on which future success would be built.

  But in the midst of this success, Amelia was troubled by reports of the deteriorating state of affairs at Drayton’s. Her love of the place remained strong, for it had been a major part of her life, her husband’s heritage and intended, eventually, to be her son’s. Lionel could not deny young George his share even if he produced sons of his own. It was the Drayton Pottery, started by Draytons for Draytons, and her retirement from the scene did not alter that vital fact.

  Her only fear was that in Lionel’s inexperienced hands the place might fail — and from all one heard it seemed that the danger had already set in. Dissatisfied workers were seeking employment elsewhere. Many had called on her at Medlar Croft to beg for work at Ashburton and gone away disappointed because the new establishment was not yet big enough.

  With the perfection of this new stoneware clay, however, the future was alive with promise. Until grinding mills on a par with Simon Kendall’s could be built to produce ground flints of equal quality, there wasn’t a pot bank in the country that could touch it. Deborah’s attractive wall sundial, now on display, was a splendid example of its potential. There had been more offers for that one piece than Amelia could count, and her only regret was that the first person to bid for it was Lionel. He had even paid a substantial deposit to secure it.

  Amelia had been surprised that he should want it. Somehow she had imagined that Miguel would desire it more than he, but Deborah had made no mention of Miguel. Surprise and pleasure because someone actually wanted to buy her work had been written all over the girl’s face when announcing that her cousin Lionel was the purchaser. Reluctant as Amelia had been — Olivia also — they had had no choice but to agree a figure with him and to promise delivery when fired.

  But now, unexpectedly, Deborah came to her aunt and asked for a word with her.

  ‘It’s about Lionel,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to put the whole thing out of my mind, but I can’t. When I left the pottery, angry workers were waiting to deal with him. How they intended to I don’t know, but their mood was ugly. If you’re wondering why I didn’t try to stop them, I can only say that even had I wanted to, I would have failed. But I didn’t want to. Not when I learned why they were there, and what had happened to Abby and where, and how, and why. Don’t ask me, dear Aunt Amelia, because I don’t want to talk about it —’

  ‘Perhaps I can guess.’

  ‘I would rather you didn’t. What concerns me now is the fact that the last person I want my sundial to go to is Lionel Drayton. Can we stop it?’

  ‘No. A promise is a promise, an agreement an agreement.’

  Disappointment was evident on Deborah’s expressive face. ‘I am to blame,’ she said remorsefully.

  Olivia joined them at that point. She was leaving early because she and Damian had something to celebrate. ‘You’ll hear in all good time,’ she said, smiling but revealing nothing.

  When the two of them had departed, Olivia happy and Deborah saddened, Amelia had the sundial removed from its display stand, packed, and placed in her carriage. Then she too left for home, but instead of driving straight to Medlar Croft she headed for Carrion House.

  The footman was sorry, but his master was unwell and not to be disturbed.

  ‘You mean he i
s ill?’

  ‘Not exactly, ma’am.’

  ‘Off colour, then?’

  ‘Slightly, yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Has he had medical attention?’

  ‘He says it’s not necessary, ma’am.’

  Amelia walked past the man and headed for the room she knew to be her nephew’s study. It was the obvious place in which to find him, the place to which a man retreated when wanting to avoid company. When she opened the door she saw him sitting morosely before the fire, a glass in his hand.

  He had the grace to stumble to his feet and to offer her a seat, which she declined.

  ‘My business won’t take long. I’ve brought your sundial. It’s in my carriage outside. Your man can fetch it, but do tell him to handle it with care. However well-wrapped, accidents can happen, and to everyone at Ashburton this article is of particular importance, being the first wall sundial to be made in our splendid new stoneware. You are fortunate indeed to get it. There have been many offers since we put it on display.’

  ‘Oh — that,’ he said indifferently. ‘I’d forgotten about it.’ Looking at him closely she saw that he was unshaven, his locks tangled and neglected, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He had plainly been drinking heavily.

  ‘How are affairs at Drayton’s?’ she asked.

  ‘Perfectly splendid!’ He waved his glass. ‘You are looking at the most successful master potter in Staffordshire, loved by his workers, admired by everyone, a man who inspires devotion in a pack of ignorant, uncouth animals lacking all respect for their betters! So why should I heed their threats?’