The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  Slowly, she sat down.

  ‘What sort of threats?’

  ‘Nothing for your delicate ears; nothing a lady would care to hear.’

  ‘So it’s true then — that you were cornered by a group of angry men? I’ve heard rumours, but ignored them. Looking at you now, I think perhaps I should have heeded them.’

  He waved her aside. He had said too much, and now regretted it. He wasn’t going to confide in any female. Except his mother, perhaps. He had always been able to confide in his mother; when caught out in any misdemeanour he could always count on her support. The more he remembered that, the more he thought that perhaps, in his present predicament, it might be a good idea to take advantage of that maternal devotion again. But first he must get rid of this tiresome aunt.

  ‘About that sundial,’ he said, ‘you can keep the payment.’

  ‘Why? Because you now decide you don’t want it? I find that odd because I thought your only reason for buying the sundial was the fact that Deborah had made it.’

  ‘How very discerning of you,’ he murmured, nose in glass.

  Amelia said equably, ‘If you really don’t want it, then thank you, nephew. I accept your offer, and I’ll tell you what I propose to do with it. I’ll place the sundial in the Martin Drayton Museum as one of the first Ashburton stoneware artefacts, with the customary notice acknowledging you as donor. I’m sure everyone will admire your generosity.’

  With that she rose. It was plain that whatever had transpired between the workers and this man, she was not going to be told. But she had learned enough. The time to renew her ties with the Drayton Pottery was drawing nearer. Hadn’t Damian Fletcher and Simon Kendall predicted as much? She had not expected it so soon and, as yet, she would say nothing about it. Not even to Olivia, who was suddenly cherishing some secret happiness but was not yet ready to share it.

  Dragging himself to his feet, Lionel bowed and said that a servant would show her out.

  At the door she turned. ‘If the time comes when you decide to abandon the Drayton Pottery, I pray you will let me know.’

  ‘Why? You own another. A flourishing one, from all accounts.’

  ‘A promising one, yes. But the two could merge. My ties are naturally stronger with Drayton’s. I’ve already begun to regard the Ashburton Pottery as Deborah’s, where she can devote herself to stoneware production, for which she has an obvious flare. Olivia agrees.’

  She failed to understand why he laughed.

  ‘Olivia! My dear aunt, she’ll be crowing! She already has cause for that… Ah, I can see you don’t know why. No matter. I imagine Jessica Kendall is crowing too. From what I hear, all is going well with the Dame School in Burslem. What a bunch of busy bees you are, to be sure…’

  *

  The more Lionel thought about it, particularly in a pleasurable alcoholic haze, the more sensible seemed the idea of calling on his mother. She would tell him what to do. She would know how to handle a bunch of threatening hooligans.

  But before he did so he had to decide whether to take them seriously or not. Would they lay down tools if he didn’t quit the place? Would they smash all the stuff now awaiting delivery to clients who had dealt with Draytons for years, and then tell the world why they had done it? Would they march to every respected potter throughout Staffordshire and report the truth about Abby Walker’s accident and what had led up to it? Would they enlist men from other potteries — fathers and sons; men with daughters and grand-daughters; men with wives and young men with sisters — and organize a mass attack on himself, whether he were at the pottery or in his home, and drive him out of both if he so much as set foot in the Drayton Pottery again?

  And would they report him to the magistrates, who were becoming rather more vigilant these days about sexual offences against young women, even though thirteen was the age of consent for girls and twelve for boys? Many people were agitating for further reform, demanding that the ages should be raised, and some magistrates were among them.

  But would those howling men do all they threatened if he didn’t stand down in favour of the late Master Potter’s wife, whom they wanted back, and Miss Olivia along with her? Would they turn as ugly as they had been prepared to be before Dave Jefferson had finally halted them by saying that if anyone should have the pleasure of thrashing him half to death, that man was he, and after that they could tar and feather him and drive him out of Burslem for all the world to see?

  At that the mob had yelled approval and, thinking they were coming at him to strip off his clothes and start the horrifying, degrading process, his stomach had retched so violently that he had vomited. Their yells had turned to laughter then and the names they shouted at him had been hideous, so that his stomach had retched again and he had sagged to the floor, weak with terror, and his fine desk had been overturned on top of him and the rest of his splendid office had been wrecked. Only now did he remember that it was Dave Jefferson who called a halt, pulled him out, and left him with a final warning not to forget every threat they had made because they were more than capable of fulfilling them.

  ‘Show your face in this pot bank again, and see if they don’t — and I’ll be in the thick of it!’

  The thought of going near the place was intolerable. He hated the whole grubby business anyway; the muck and the mess, the anxiety and the harassment. Only the triumph of inheriting the Drayton legacy had kept him going. Now he scarcely cared about that. He had this house and enough money for its upkeep. He also had some money left by his father, thanks to his mother’s diligence, though he would have appreciated more and felt she should have arranged it. The man had died without knowing he was to be a father. A child born to a fatherless estate deserved all the compensation he could get.

  *

  Such thoughts should have been comforting, but uneasiness remained. He was beginning to hate more than the Drayton Pottery and to fear more than the threats of those rabble-rousing men. He was beginning to hate this house and to be haunted by the sinister legends attached to it, even though he knew them to be nonsense and that to be influenced by them was beneath such an intelligent mind as his. But discard them as he might, the fact remained that both his father and his aunt had died at Carrion House in tragic circumstances. Tragic — and prophetic?

  Not that his father’s murder had ever touched him other than to make him wonder how it had happened, who had committed it, and why so respectable a man should have been lying naked in an exotic background clad in nothing but an exotic robe. At times, the thought had been amusing. The man couldn’t have been the paragon of virtue his widow always claimed. Poor Mama…poor stupid Mama… Joseph Drayton had obviously duped her.

  Luckily, she was still easy to dupe. That was one thing he himself could count on. Nothing would ever shake her belief in her son. He would always be able to fall back on her support. She would understand and condone anything he did or any decision he made — such as to sell the Drayton Pottery, pocket the proceeds, and settle down to enjoy life in his own way. Since he was officially Master of Drayton’s he surely had the right to dispose of it?

  And why not Carrion House as well, since he didn’t really like the place? It was beginning to get on his nerves. Particularly that gaudy withdrawing room which he still hadn’t got around to refurbishing. Whenever he tried to put his mind to it, he would thrust it aside. He would open the door and shut it again quickly — which was odd since no recollection of it had bothered him even during Phoebe’s funeral service, which he had attended dutifully and piously with both families. On that occasion his mind had been more pleasurably occupied with thoughts of Caroline Fletcher and how soon he would be able to join her in America.

  And why not? After all, Phoebe’s death had been an accident, so really he had nothing to reproach himself with. She shouldn’t have refused to give him the ruby necklace; shouldn’t have provoked him into seizing it. And if the damned clasp hadn’t been so stubborn he wouldn’t have had to use such strength…wrenching at it…
twisting it. She shouldn’t have resisted. She shouldn’t have let her scrawny neck become so rigid that he had to use force until the ageing muscles slackened, gagging the hideous choking noise which made her eyes bulge from their sockets and her tongue loll out…swollen…hideous…

  *

  The wine was mellowing. Beneath its influence the idea of leaving Carrion House for ever became more and more appealing. He would sell it, and the pottery, and clear out of the country as before. He had enjoyed himself in America. Caroline had proved useful and, for a long time, accommodating. Why shouldn’t she do so again — especially since, at long last, she had responded amiably to his letter?

  Fletcher is now one of the most successful tradespeople in Staffordshire, he had written. He ranks as an industrialist now…and he is still your husband, but richer, far richer, than he used to be. If you come to Burslem now, it will be well worth your while.

  His motivation had been simple. He had always wanted to put a spoke in the wheel of Olivia’s happiness, and nothing could have achieved that more effectively than the arrival of Damian’s wife to break up the domestic bliss. She had not come, but to his mind her reply could be regarded as promising.

  But all that seemed unimportant after recent events. He had to think only of himself now, decide on the best steps to take. His mind had gone round in circles, searching for a solution and finding none. The only person he could rely on for that was indeed his mother.

  He roused himself with an effort. Before calling on her he had to make himself presentable; eliminate signs of heavy drinking; wash, shave, and don his finest clothes. No hint of slovenliness must betray the despair of these past forty-eight hours. He must appear to be confident, buoyant, his usual suave self. He must be the charming son on whom she doted, and nothing would please her more than to see him in the suit of clothes she most admired — the amber brocade cutaway with enormous cuffs and matching pockets, all elaborately braided, set off with amber satin breeches and silken hose. This had always been his most admired and most fortunate ensemble, which was why he kept the ruby in a secret, well-concealed inner pocket; his talisman, his lucky charm, his insurance against misfortune.

  He took his time over an elaborate toilet. To his valet’s surprise, he was patient, polite and appreciative, even dismissing him before finally donning the long-skirted coat. Lionel detected the man’s gratification and was amused by it. If the fellow did but know, he was anxious to be rid of him. Alone, he could turn to the secret pocket which he was always careful not to reveal in the presence of others.

  A clever tailor had made it undetectable to all but the sharpest eye — or the most searching fingers. It was situated beneath the padded shoulder lining, impossible to reach when on the body and therefore safe from pickpockets. It was also skilfully concealed beneath a fold and imperceptibly safety-fastened. Even he had to search well for it, but he could always assure himself of the ruby’s safety by feeling for it through the silken material without troubling to look further.

  Spreading out the garment, his fingers found the spot — and felt nothing.

  Jolted, he reached for the tiny hooks. They were undone, the pocket empty. He ripped the lining apart, but nothing had slipped down within it.

  There was no sign of the ruby anywhere.

  Trembling, his hands scrabbled within the clothes closet and amongst the rows of elaborate garments and the tiers of stylish shoes. They found nothing.

  He knew full well that never at any time had he transferred the ruby to another hiding place except when travelling, when he carried it on his person. At home, its concealment never varied because no other item in his wardrobe had such excellent secret storage. Logically therefore, but uncharacteristically, he must have failed to refasten the pocket after last examining the stone; it had fallen soundlessly onto the carpet and rolled away.

  The thought that it could be lying in a far corner of the room, or be lodged beneath the skirting, was reassuring, though for it to roll away seemed unlikely since its setting was flat and ornamental, broken from the original necklace. So it must have bounced out of sight, not rolled. He accepted the solution with relief, and a conviction that the ruby would come to light. He would scour the room for it on his return. Meanwhile, he had to get a grip on himself and proceed with his plans as if nothing had happened. He must go ahead and call on his mother.

  *

  The sight of her was a shock. She was slumped in a high-backed chair, her fat body and billowing skirts overflowing the narrow seat — like an unset rice mould, he thought unkindly.

  But it was her face that shocked him most. It seemed to have aged overnight, the contours sagging, the eyes shadowed, the skin sallow. And, for once, no tray was beside her; no fortifying glass of wine, no sweetmeats, no tempting tidbits.

  Nor did she greet him with her usual joy. She stared at him dully, her mouth slack and her eyes blank, as if looking into a world that stupefied her. She looked ill, and that was a nuisance because sensible conversation with a sick person was impossible and he had come here solely for that; for a common-sense discussion of his future. Also, of course, for something as tangible as money to supplement the proceeds from the sale of Drayton’s. He could then leave Carrion House to be sold by the best property dealer in Stoke and be on his way to America.

  ‘If you’re unwell, Mama, you should be abed. Shall I summon Rose?’ When she made no answer, he said, ‘Or Pierre, for a glass of Burgundy? That always does you good…’ When she still remained silent he added, with a touch of impatience, ‘Plainly, you are in no mood for company. I’ll come back another time.’

  As he made for the door, her voice followed him.

  ‘So you came. I knew you would have to.’

  He jerked round. She might look dull and spiritless, but there was emotion in her voice; something deep and terrible and accusing and frightening.

  ‘I suppose you thought I would come to you, as always. You were wrong, my son.’ Almost on a surprised note she added, ‘You see, I still call you “my son”. I can still do that.’

  Her mind is touched, he thought. How can I talk sensibly to a woman who is touched?

  The thing to do was to humour her. He said gently, ‘And why not? I am your son.’ He went back to her and, with a display of affection, kissed the sagging cheek.

  No plump arms reached up to embrace him this time. Vaguely alarmed, but not deeply concerned, he said, ‘Come, let me take you to your room. You shouldn’t be sitting here, alone and neglected.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m never neglected!’ Her voice was suddenly normal. ‘I have servants at my beck and call, as you know. And Miguel is frequently thoughtful. No doubt you find all that reassuring, if you ever trouble to think about me.’

  ‘Mama!’

  This wasn’t the reception he had expected, nor one he had ever met from her. The underlying note of anger, the disturbing accusation, the lack of warmth — all were startling and unfamiliar. He scoured his mind for a cause and grasped the obvious one.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard about the trouble at Drayton’s? Don’t worry — it was nothing important. Nothing I didn’t know how to handle.’

  ‘Ah yes — the trouble at the pottery. Rose was agog with it. It was even rumoured that a riot had broken out.’

  ‘A riot!’

  He laughed, a little too heartily perhaps because she said, ‘You don’t have to pretend with me, my son.’ Her voice was chillingly sane. ‘I know you well, alas. Your bravado is meant to hide something. Fear — or guilt? What had you done to cause the trouble?’

  ‘Nothing many a man in my position hasn’t done before.’

  ‘Seduced one of the pottery women?’

  He shrugged. ‘She was a pretty little thing. And willing.’

  ‘“Little”? You mean young? How young?’

  ‘Not under the age of consent, if that’s what you fear. The magistrates would have difficulty in arresting me, for that reason.’

  ‘But still young enough f
or men to be outraged? And what was the accident? Rose heard about it. Even that someone was drowned.’

  Nothing much ailed his mother, he thought, if gossip could occupy her mind.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ he said. ‘No one was drowned. D’you think the pottery workers don’t know where the canal is situated, and avoid falling in?’

  It sounded convincing and she accepted it. Even so, she seemed strangely beyond him and suddenly he knew that, for the first time in his life, he was going to have difficulty in winning her sympathy.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mama? What’s on your mind? It almost seems as if you’ve something against me.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t have — that’s what you mean, isn’t it? A mother should harbour nothing against a son — not mistrust, nor doubt, nor fear, nor horror.’

  ‘Horror? Why should you be horrified? Because I amused myself with a chit of a girl? Did my father never do such a thing?’

  He saw her stiffen, and was pleased. He had touched her on some secret, sensitive spot.

  ‘Your father,’ she said at last, dragging the words out, ‘was not perfection, and I knew it. He married me for my money — I knew that, too, but I loved him. Even when I suspected that morally he wasn’t all I believed him to be, I still loved him. No other man ever looked at me before. I was fat and ungainly, so I was grateful to him. But not for long. Not when he ridiculed my appearance and deplored my taste in dress and enlisted dressmakers to take me in hand. But it was worse when I began to suspect that he had affaires, even that he went with that village whore, Meg Gibson as she was —’

  ‘Tinsley! Good God — Meg Tinsley!’ He laughed aloud. ‘You’ve always held my father up as a pillar of respectability and now you admit his sins were as bad as my own!’

  ‘No. Not as bad as yours.’ She thrust a shaking hand into her pocket. ‘This is the first chance I’ve had to give you this. I found it when examining your clothes for moths —’