The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  It might also be useful to know her daughter’s prospects, and he didn’t mean as a worker at the Drayton Pottery, of which her mother confidently expected her to tire. Phoebe hinted at much greater things for her daughter, providing she didn’t persist with her waywardness, and surely such things must emanate from the wealthy Tremains, for it was well known that on the Drayton side only the sons inherited. Master Potters had never yet been replaced by Mistress Potters, nor would ever be. The only place for women in the earthenware trade was at a workbench, and that was no place for a lady, so, as her mother predicted, the novelty of it would peter out soon enough. The girl would take up the threads of her normal life again and people would forget her present lapse from grace. Only the rich could afford to be eccentric, which was why people were turning a blind eye on Olivia Freeman’s more-than-eccentric occupation.

  And so, for the present, would he.

  CHAPTER 10

  Olivia could never see a pot emerge from its glost firing without marvelling over the miracle of it. From an ugly, dun-coloured lump of clay, clogged with grit when first extracted from the earth, came this polished loveliness, pure in quality and form, smooth to touch and beautiful to behold.

  Right back in the mists of time this ancient craft had served the needs of man, for man had made pots before he ever spun flax. This she had learned from Martin Drayton. As a child she had been his enraptured audience, learning how bowls were first formed in the palm of the hand and then, more adventurously, built in spiralling coils or from clay rolled into slabs and joined together. Then came the first primitive mechanisation — the wheel and turntable on which a lump of clay could be thrown and, spinning, be opened with the thumb and then widened into climbing walls.

  And seeing that her imagination had been caught, Martin had then described how the craft had reached perfection in the Far East and spread across the world to remote regions of the Far West, and how ancient man, in both far-flung areas, had encountered the same problems and solved them in identical ways, and because she was avid to learn more he encouraged her to make full use of his library.

  ‘What my sister Jessica did for me, I will do for you, Olivia. She and her husband opened up the world for me by setting up my first pottery, unbeknown to my brother — a shed in their cottage garden to which I could retreat and do what I wanted to do, make what I wanted to make. And that is what I hope to do for you some day — not in a shed, working alone, but right here in the Drayton Pottery. The days are gone when we dealt only in mass production and a worker who wanted to express himself was denied the opportunity. But there will always be ground work to master. Knowing your material; knowing the feel of it and the handling of it — that is the way to appreciate it and eventually to love it. And when that happens, you will become a potter. Whatever line you work in — moulding, throwing, modelling, slip-ware — you must love your material before you can bring the best out of it.’

  She remembered those words now, for at the wedgers’ benches she tackled bigger amounts of clay than she had needed for her portrait model of Olivia, where areas were built up bit by bit and applied with the fingers, sculpting the likeness as it grew. That model had now been put aside — preserved with other unfinished work in damp bins to maintain moisture, for one day she would return to it and, said Martin, judge it with a more critical eye.

  Life at the pottery had not lessened her enthusiasm, nor pride in the Drayton heritage. She was also proud of belonging to Burslem. Here the earthenware trade had burgeoned until the place had become the very hearthstone of the potteries, its thousand years of history culminating in a craftsmanship unequalled elsewhere in the country, but sadly scarring its face with the penalty of prosperity. Here the immense bottle ovens had been designed and built; here they belched their black palls of smoke, blotting out the sky. The first bisque firing — called ‘biscuit’ by the workers — took fifty-four hours, with consequent smouldering during the necessary days of cooling before the kiln could be drawn and men were able to remove bricks to gain access and examine the ware.

  Following the biscuit firing came extended hours of glost firing, recharging the chimneys until Burslem’s canopy of smoke seemed linked from pottery to pottery, permanent, immovable.

  At Drayton’s a ten per cent loss represented a successful firing, but with many rival potteries the percentage was higher. Rejected pots were recycled as grog, fine-ground to strengthen clay needed for bigger and stronger ware. In a pottery nothing was wasted, nothing thrown away. Pottery was a complete product of the earth, combining the three elements — earth, fire, and water — but dependent upon man for its creation.

  It was also a never-ending miracle of which neither worker nor master ever tired. It was demanding, exhausting, rewarding, and challenging. In Burslem everyone existed by it, filled their lungs with it, and many were finally killed by it. None realised this more than Martin, who already suspected one fatal cause and continued to fight his lone battle by experimenting endlessly with glaze formulae, which he then meticulously recorded. Some day, he vowed, he would produce an outstanding leadless glaze.

  Meanwhile, to be considered an eccentric was something to be tolerated with equanimity because time, he was convinced, would prove him right and legislation must eventually minimise the permitted lead content, but until science could develop more effective firing methods the additional problem of air pollution would remain. It was regarded as a nuisance because of the dirt it deposited, but no more than that, and no legislation in the world could control the massive consumption of fuel, the cost of which was the only aspect which worried the average master potter.

  For Martin, time marched slowly, but for Olivia the reverse. Her new life provided a merciful escape from thought and a refuge from yearning. Only when she came face to face with Damian did the futility of her love taunt her, and never had it been so emphasised as today. She had heard him ride into the potters’ yard as she crossed to the children’s shed and because this was the day on which he came to teach the older ones she had turned expectantly, her heart leaping at the sight of him. And then she had halted, arrested by something in his face, an excitement, an expectancy, and knew at once that his happiness meant her own unhappiness, for only one person could be responsible for either.

  Later, she thought that life should have given some warning that this day was to be a memorable one and that at the end of it not only she would be affected by events, but others too; that its impact would be felt from the Drayton Pottery to Tremain Hall, from the farrier’s forge to the witch’s cottage in Larch Lane; all totally unconnected, but all involved, and all never to be the same again.

  As Damian came toward her, smiling, she said impulsively, ‘Something has happened, something wonderful … ’

  ‘You are perceptive, Olivia.’

  It was the first time he had used her first name, a fact of which she was more aware than he. To him it was a slip of the tongue, passing unnoticed, but to her it was a milestone in intimacy, revealing that though he might refer to her as Miss Freeman he thought of her in a more personal way. It was a crumb to be cherished.

  ‘One doesn’t have to be perceptive to see when a man is happier than usual,’ she said, not troubling to ask the cause because she knew he was going to tell her and she almost wished he would not. She hurried on, ‘You have had good news. And there can be only one source for it when a man is parted from his wife.’

  ‘Intuitive, too,’ he murmured, as if seeing a whole new aspect of her. ‘I never realised … never expected … ’

  She said with some asperity, to hide emotion, ‘I cannot think why, sir. I hope I am not so insensitive as to be unaware of other people’s feelings. And one doesn’t have to be intuitive to realise that a man who has been forced to leave the woman he loves on the other side of the world must miss her very much indeed — as, I am sure, she misses you.’

  ‘But not for much longer, thank God. She must be on the high seas en route to Liverpool at this moment. The ne
w mail coach brought a letter dated many weeks ago, reporting that she was sailing on the Saracen within the month, with her parents’ blessing.’ He added with a wry smile, ‘But not her grandfather’s, of course.’

  ‘Why “of course”?’

  ‘Henry Williamson would be against her leaving for England, despite the state of affairs in America.’

  ‘But why, since her husband is here?’

  To that he said nothing, and she didn’t add that she wondered why the lovely Caroline had not accompanied him in the first place. Since he volunteered no further information, she asked no further questions, except to enquire how bad things were in the Colonies.

  ‘Bad indeed. War with England seems unavoidable, especially if the Prime Minister continues in office, and that, since he is George the Third’s creature, seems inevitable.’

  ‘You don’t approve of Lord North?’

  ‘Not of his incompetent foreign policy where the Colonies are concerned. If he introduces his proposed Tea Act, which I predict he will, he will lose them for us.’

  ‘But how? Why?’

  ‘Because by such a law the East India Company would be relieved of the heavy duty imposed on the tea it provides to Britain, at the same time being permitted to sell it directly to America. This would enable the company, even with the payment of the Townshend duty over there, to undercut the price of Dutch tea which the Colonists have been smuggling into their ports.’

  ‘So they would be tempted to buy cheaper British tea?’

  ‘That is what North believes, but I doubt if the Colonists would rise to the bait. They are astute enough to recognise that the purchase of the East India Company’s tea would mean acceptance of Parliamentary power to tax them for revenue. They would see it as a move to establish dictatorship over them, and they would parry either by destroying or sequestering tea sent across the ocean by the company. Pioneers learn their lessons the hard way, and they have been learning them in the new world since the Mayflower landed. A war of independence will come. Every step the Prime Minister takes accelerates the situation. Thanks to the crown and the government, blood will be shed.’

  ‘Then that bigoted old gentleman should be glad to see his granddaughter safely out of the country.’

  Damian smiled. ‘Who said he was bigoted?’

  ‘There was no need. Put it down to my intuition again. And now we mustn’t keep the children waiting any longer. They’re getting restive. Can’t you hear the din?’

  The din multiplied as he opened the door of the shed for her to pass through, but before she did so she added, ‘Of course you will go to Liverpool to meet your wife. The children will miss you even for that short period, but I am glad for you, Damian. And I’m also glad about the growth of your trade. Uncle Martin told me about the reredos — indeed, everyone is talking about it — and that as a result he has asked you to build new gates for the pottery. He said he made sure of being first in the queue because your work will soon be in great demand. How proud and excited Mrs Drayton will be when she hears!’

  Her smile was warm, and instinctively he took both her hands in his, thinking how nice she was and how fortunate Caroline would be to have such a friend. He had no doubt that they would like each other the moment they met.

  He had no further word with Olivia, but he was aware of her at the far end of the room, teaching tiny tots to model toy animals. It had been her own idea to utilise Burslem’s staple material to foster their imagination. ‘And I would be more useful that way,’ she had said to Amelia, ‘than in trying to teach them sums — which my group is too young to grapple with in any case. They can learn a lot, using their hands creatively.’ And she had been proved right. Amelia as well as he had observed how the little ones responded, flowering under Olivia’s attention.

  He was sorry when her session ended. He watched her go back to work, wishing they had been able to talk for longer. He was disappointed when she departed without a further glance.

  The other momentous thing to happen that day, though Olivia was unaware of it, was the unexpected arrival at the pottery of old Ma Tinsley, asking to see the Master Potter. The works foreman was about to order her off the premises when Martin’s voice asked what she wanted, adding that there was no need to send her away.

  ‘You look concerned, Mistress Tinsley. Is something wrong?’

  Her gnarled hand waved a crumpled paper.

  ‘Well, as to that, Master Potter, I cain’t rightly say seein’ as ’ow I cain’t read and knows nobody as does. The crateman wot brought this said me name be on’t, but I wouldn’t be knowin’, seein’ as ’ow I cain’t read that neether. So wot’s t’do, I sez to mesel’, but find some’un as can? An’ ’oo better’n a Master Potter that’s allus bin kind to a body?’ To his foreman’s disapproval Martin led the old woman into his office, leaving the door ajar because of the smell of her, but offering her a seat nonetheless. This Martha accepted, eyeing her surroundings with darting, bird-like eyes, until at last Martin extended his hand for the crumpled paper.

  ‘You’d like me to read that to you, Mistress?’

  At such a polite form of address, she preened. There were others she could have approached, including the landlord of the Red Lion though he pushed her out of the door more often than not. But Martin Drayton came to mind first because he never failed to greet her when she crossed his path and even asked after her health — which was more than that bastard brother of his had ever done, not to mention that young swine from Tremain Hall. Master Lionel looked just like his father, and just like his father he probably was in other ways as well.

  But the Master Potter was holding out his hand, waiting for the letter which the crateman had delivered to her door. ‘Be you Ma Tinsley — Martha Tinsley from Liverpool?’ he had asked, and she had blinked at him in surprise because she had left Liverpool so long ago that she had almost forgotten her life there. It returned only in nightmares, when scenes from the city’s notorious jail came back to haunt her. Fifteen years she had rotted in that place, convicted of witchcraft, while her sister Lottie thrived in her prosperous brothel and, into the bargain, received money from the man she claimed to be young Frank’s father, though many a man could have been that. Lottie had always been lucky, but it was Martha’s pride that she had outlived her sister and that it was she whom Frankie had turned to in the end.

  ‘Is it a letter?’ Martin asked gently.

  The old woman came to with a jerk. ‘’Aye, sir, from t’look of it … ’

  She handed it over. It had been much handled, or had travelled a long way in some dirty pocket.

  He began to read.

  ‘Dear Mistress Tinsley, I write on behalf of your nephew’s wife, who is unlettered and is therefore unable to acquaint you with the news of his death. Frank Tinsley went down in mid-Atlantic this past month, with all on the Silver Cross — ’

  The old woman let out a great wail. Bony hands flew to her face. ‘Frank! Our Frankie! Dear God, say it ain’t true!’

  Arms clutching her bent body, she rocked back and forth. Martin was surprised by the extent of her grief, for though he remembered Frank Tinsley well, he had never been aware of any strong attachment between them. When seeing them together in the village it had usually been outside the Red Lion, where Frank had been employed as potman for awhile and where Martha made a nuisance of herself more often than not.

  It had been part of Frank’s job to make sure that his aunt took herself off after quaffing her draught, and this he had done in his straightforward fashion, but with kindness beneath his badinage. ‘Be off wi’ye, me ould faggot, an’ I’ll spice a mug o’ sack for thee afore ye goes t’bed t’night, so’s ye’ll sleep like a babby … ’

  His good-natured face would grin as he sent her packing, speeding her on her way with a smack on the rump, and she would shout abuse at him over her shoulder, calling him names which would have offended others but which brought gales of laughter from her jovial nephew. ‘If it’s a shouting match ye be wantin�
�, ould woman, I can beat ye any time!’ And his laughter would echo across Cobbler’s Green.

  Strange, how long forgotten incidents could spring to mind years later, vivid as the moment they happened. Martin could recall Frank Tinsley’s good-humoured face as clearly as he could recall old Martha’s twenty years ago. Her nephew’s had always been genial, hers all-too-often grinning wickedly or scowling maliciously. But now he was moved by pity for the woman, for plainly she had loved her nephew.

  Turning back to the letter, he said gently, ‘You must hear the rest. It is better to face sad news in one dose than to prolong the pain by sampling it bit by bit,’ but before he could continue Martha Tinsley said bitterly, ‘So’e went back t’sea, after all. She made ’im, I’ll warrant, tho’ she allus said she were agin it. Changed ’er mind, no doubt, when she learned as ’ow’e could make more money at sea than on the docks — or else she liked bein’ free of ’im, t’play fast an’ loose.’

  Martin said sharply, ‘If you mean Meg, you are wrong. You didn’t know her. No one really knew her. But I did.’

  ‘So she fooled thee too, Master Potter?’

  ‘Do you wish to hear the rest of this letter, or not?’

  She whined, ‘Aye, sir, that I does.’

  He read on. “‘Your nephew’s widow bids me tell you that she will travel soon to Burslem, bringing a gift to you from her husband. She asks me to mention that it is something he especially wanted you to have.”’

  ‘Ah, the dear lad … the dear lad … ’

  “‘Widow Tinsley will entrust this letter to a crateman named Joss Sykes, who travels weekly to the potteries. The lady will follow as soon as able.” It is signed, “Zedediah Broadbent, Priest in the parish of St James’s, Liverpool.’”