The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘Never! Oh, darling, never! When all this is behind us and we have a real home, everything will be as before!’

  ‘We have a real home. If you are hankering after something like the one you left, you know I can’t provide it.’

  ‘Not exactly the same, of course, but better than this. I know you will. You see how much faith I have in you? You will leave all this menial work behind and become a gentleman again. A noted scholar, lecturing at universities throughout the country and then — who knows? — in Europe too. Then my own country will welcome you back and the bad times will be forgotten.’

  He gave a half-exasperated, half-amused sigh.

  ‘Stop dreaming dreams, Caroline. And stop trying to put back the clock. The past is the past and the present is the present, and what is more I am happy and content in it. When I looked at the Drayton Pottery gates today I had a greater sense of achievement than I’ve ever known; greater satisfaction and a greater feeling of accomplishment, for here was something I had actually created, built with my own hands, endurable and lasting. I shall never be an academic again. My tutorial days are over.’

  ‘And yet you waste time teaching the children of pottery workers!’

  ‘That’s no waste of time, and I do it because I want to, because with them I see daily results. The children of the rich have so much that they’ve no need to hunger after knowledge; the children of the poor are starved of it and drink avidly. And how proud their parents are because they, who can neither read nor write, have children who are learning to! Serving such people voluntarily is very different from being paid for it by those who merely want their children to be cultured because it is a social asset.’

  ‘Captain Mannering was right. You do hold revolutionary ideas.’

  ‘There is nothing of the revolutionary in me. The reformer, perhaps, though that sounds too pious for my liking. And who is Captain Mannering? The Redcoat officer I saw you dancing with at your birthday party?’

  She said negligently, ‘Did I dance with an officer? I don’t remember. What concerns me more is this insane idea of becoming a craftsman of some sort, wasting your education and yourself.’

  ‘An education is never wasted, but until I began working with my hands I didn’t realise I was already wasting myself. Do you know where I first discovered that, where my interest in ironwork was first sparked? On your father’s plantation. I started by watching the blacksmith at his craft. He was highly skilled and after a while I easily persuaded him to teach me, for there is nothing a craftsman enjoys more than sharing a love of his work. But I never hoped for more than the chance to be an amateur. Not until a sympathetic prison warden made sure I had a trade to turn to, and gave me the opportunity to learn a farrier’s job, did there seem even a remote hope that I should earn a living with my hands. Like myself, he realised that my tutorial life was over. At the time, that presented a barren future, but now I’m grateful for it. Now I understand why Olivia turned her back on the promise of wealth and position to satisfy her need to work with material from the earth, as any humble toiler does, turning it into something which people can use in their everyday life, or something just to admire and possess.’

  ‘Well, darling, I think this Olivia person must be mad, but as for you — all right, I accept your quixotic notion because I suppose you could become a successful foundry owner and such men have won enormous success in the Colonies.’ Hope flashed anew. ‘That is what we will do! With my money we can set up a good commercial foundry and you will become famous for it! They do say that if we have to fight a war of independence, it will be highly profitable for the people in the metal industry, making guns and all that sort of thing — absolutely splendid!’

  ‘No. That isn’t what I want, nor what I intend to do, and the sooner you realise it the better for both of us — and for our marriage.’

  With her characteristic ability to reject anything she didn’t wish to remember, Caroline turned her back on these tiresome reminders of discord and concentrated on the more important matter of making herself beautiful for tonight. Even the smallest occasion merited that, particularly if it had potential, as this one had.

  *

  ‘Amelia must have taken leave of her senses,’ Phoebe declared. ‘I shall decline, of course, for both of us.’

  ‘Not for me, Mother. I shall accept for myself.’

  Aghast, Phoebe vowed that her daughter too had taken leave of her senses. ‘Or haven’t you grasped what lies behind this invitation? It is intended to demonstrate that the Draytons acknowledge your father’s illegitimate son and include him in the family. And haven’t you realised that accepting Amelia’s invitation will signify that you share her disloyal attitude?’

  ‘I share no attitudes. I have my own.’

  ‘Meaning you line yourself up on your father’s side, against me?’

  ‘I’m lining up on no one’s side. As far as I’m concerned, there are no sides, only situations which have to be accepted, or at least tolerated if they aren’t to one’s liking. Oh, Mother, can’t you see that Amelia’s gesture is a generous and thoughtful one, inviting new neighbours as well as the family so that everything is eased, and demonstrating to poor Miguel that not everyone is unwelcoming?’

  ‘So you intend to stand in the wings, applauding!’

  ‘Not in the wings. Centre stage. Miguel is my brother — half-brother if you like — and I see no reason why I should turn my back on him or refuse to acknowledge him, besides which, declining the invitation would be churlish.’

  With a cry of exasperation Phoebe turned away. Was there no sympathy anywhere, no person in the world to whom she could turn for support or compassion? Not a word had come from Acland, although Lionel had kept his promise about writing to him. ‘I despatched it personally, my pretty aunt, taking it to the mail coach depot in Stoke, not risking inquisitive Burslem eyes. Everyone gathers at the Red Lion when the mail is about to depart and I’d cut a conspicuous figure, handing something to the driver personally when it is the custom of the great houses to send a servant with despatches. Questioning the driver, even offering money to get a glimpse of someone’s personal mail, is a popular pastime amongst the idle.’ That had been more than a month ago, since when the Bristol coach had come and gone no less than twice, bringing no reply. She was now in a state of tension, fearful one moment and anxious the next. Had he forgotten her, or was he sick with a fever or something even worse? She hoped it was the latter because to be forgotten was uncomplimentary.

  Mercifully, she had her new home to occupy her mind. Agatha had accepted her brother’s offer for Carrion House with a great show of reluctance which didn’t deceive Phoebe one bit. ‘Of course I ought to decline for Lionel’s sake,’ she had demurred. ‘The property will be his one day.’

  ‘Then offer it to him now,’ Max had suggested. ‘He is of age and entitled to his own establishment. Find out if he wants it — which I doubt, considering the state it’s in. It would cost him a vast amount to restore and he has a more than comfortable billet here. I imagine that carries great weight with your son.’

  In other words, living at Tremain costs him nothing; living at Carrion House would cost him much. Agatha had thrown her brother a reproachful glance, resenting the implication that her idolised son was grasping, at which Max had said impatiently, ‘Oh, come, Aggie, why should any young man choose to saddle himself with a burdensome property before he needs to? I wouldn’t have chosen to, at his age.’

  So Agatha succumbed, and with her consent a fleet of workmen descended on the place before the deal had gone through. Maxwell seemed as eager as his wife for work to be started, equally eager that she should take up residence there, and he willingly paid overtime to speed things up.

  A team of gardeners tackled the outside while twice the number of men made an onslaught on the building itself. He chivvied workmen and foremen alike; the lawyers too, with the result that the sale went through in record time and, handing her the deeds, he said, ‘Now you can mo
ve in whenever you like. Some of the rooms are habitable and you can occupy those while the rest of the work continues.’

  She was delighted, but not when Olivia refused to live there. Visiting the place with her mother one day, she chose to stay at Tremain, a choice which Phoebe branded as yet another disloyalty.

  ‘But I belong there, Mother. I feel at home there.’

  ‘You will feel at home here as soon as it is restored to its former glory. I shall turn it into the place Joseph created, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs. Your father will have to pay every penny, and serve him right. Just look at this splendid hall! I remember what it was like when my brother lived here, how proud of it he was. He spared no expense in turning this house into a home worthy of himself. I shall do the same. And how I shall enjoy it, for I have the same excellent taste that my dear brother had.’

  Her mother’s avarice, tinged with relish, was distasteful to Olivia, but she made no comment. Even when Phoebe declared that she was sure to come running when she found her nose put out of joint by ‘that Mexican brat’ Olivia still said nothing, so Phoebe taunted her further. ‘Your gullible grandparents are already looking on him with favour; how do you like that, you foolish girl?’ And then, impatiently, ‘Why do you remain silent?’

  Olivia remained silent because there was something about Carrion House which chilled her, and it had nothing to do with its desolate state, now fast disappearing. The restoration of roof and walls and windows, redecoration inside and out, the rejuvenation of panelling and paintwork, the repairing and polishing of oaken floors, the swift transition from darkness to light, the speedy repair of neglected lawns and shrubberies, the cleaning of lichen-covered paths and garden statuary — not even this transformation overcame a feeling of uneasiness. She disliked Carrion House, and always would.

  Unexpectedly, she asked, ‘Didn’t Aunt Jessica once find this place distasteful?’

  ‘And where did you hear that? Not from me, for I never really knew my twin sister. People who are as deep as she never reveal their innermost feelings; they are all dark undercurrents and darker secrets. But I can well believe that recollections of Carrion House are distasteful to her, for it was here that Joseph so wisely meted out punishment for her shameful behaviour.’

  ‘Why? I should imagine that a female member of Burslem society who committed a “social sin” would suffer enough through bigots and sermonisers. Poor Aunt Jessica, she must have needed great courage to face up to such prejudice. Why should my late uncle punish her even more, and in what way?’

  At that, Phoebe shrugged.

  ‘How should I know? I wasn’t embroiled in the sordid affair, but naturally one guessed that he insisted on her marrying her canal-digger and made sure she was never received at Carrion House, or was acknowledged by him or any member of the family ever again — though I know Martin kept in touch with the pair of them, and it wasn’t long before my foolish mother did the same.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘Naturally not! Neither I nor dear Joseph. People with high moral standards cannot be expected to condone wickedness.’

  ‘No wonder she disliked Carrion House!’

  ‘Rubbish! No doubt she was envious, or else she heeded all those nonsensical tales about its tragic past. No doubt you’ve heard of them.’

  ‘About the wife of the merchant who originally built the place? She disappeared, didn’t she, until later her body was found walled up in one of the cellars, along with that of a man? I wonder if it was true … ’

  ‘Of course not! Nor that the place is haunted. Dear Joseph paid no heed to such nonsense, and nor shall I. Sinister legends are often attributed to old houses. Joseph always said he had cause to be glad of them, because they kept superstitious buyers at bay for so long that he was able to pick up a bargain. Then he changed the whole character of the place, turning it into one of the most elegant for miles. I remember him once saying, “I’ve exorcised all those ridiculous tales, dear sister. Nothing sinister or tragic will ever happen within these walls so long as I live here.” Nor did it.’

  ‘But wasn’t there something strange about his death?’

  ‘And what have you heard about that?’

  ‘That he was found dead in a garden house after several days. It was Lionel who told me. Surely it was odd that a person should lie there, undiscovered, for so long?’

  ‘Due entirely to Agatha’s stupid neglect. No doubt he had been ill for some time, and well must she have known it. He probably had an attack when walking in the grounds and sought refuge in the summer house because he could stagger no further. Doctor Wotherspoon confirmed that it was sudden heart failure. So there he lay, forgotten because his wife was uncaring enough not to worry. She had gone to bed with a headache that night, or so she said, and didn’t miss him until well into the next morning because she always breakfasted in bed.’

  ‘And no one thought of looking in the garden house?’

  ‘Of course not. It was never used in the winter, so why should he be there? The head gardener had a key because it was his job to keep an eye on the place, examining it only occasionally at that time of the year.’

  ‘So it was locked up?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it should have been, but the man must have forgotten, otherwise poor Joseph couldn’t have sought refuge there when he was taken ill. My poor dear brother, how he must have suffered!’

  Because her mother obviously found the subject painful Olivia changed it by saying that despite everything she hoped Jessica and Simon Kendall had inherited Ashburton before her uncle Joseph died. ‘I would like him to have known of it.’

  ‘And I am happy to say they did not,’ Phoebe snapped. ‘What’s more, they certainly didn’t deserve such a legacy. They achieved it by toadying up to senile old Sir Neville Armstrong, the last remaining member of the Armstrong family. Kendall was an Armstrong bastard — the son of Jane Kendall, a lady’s maid whose parents served the Armstrong household. It was commonly believed that Sir Neville begat him, until he died and it was learned that Adrian, the wildest son of all, was the father.’ Phoebe gave a distasteful shrug. ‘I have no desire to recall the unpleasant story, but my sister’s affluence and her husband’s social rise are ill-deserved and only confirm that the wicked shall flourish.’

  ‘In happiness, too, from all appearances. I know no other couple, other than Martin and Amelia, who are so content. Serenity like theirs never grew out of wickedness. And why,’ Olivia finished artlessly, ‘should you consider adultery before marriage a worse sin than adultery after it? Or perhaps you don’t call it adultery if one of the party believes himself — or herself — to be widowed?’

  Leaving her mother at last bereft of words Olivia escaped to the one place where she could forget the rest of the world. Recently, Martin had given her a personal key. ‘I had to climb over the rear wall, where no one could see me,’ he had told her with a smile, ‘but after Jessica and Simon helped me rig up their cottage shed, that became unnecessary. They weren’t my only allies — I had Amelia and Meg Gibson, too. Not another soul knew what I was up to. Amelia used to ride over from Tremain to clean my tools and do other manual jobs when I was at Drayton’s on weekdays, and Meg used turn my pots so I could concentrate on the kind of thing I really wanted to do. Run-of-the-mill jobs were necessary to bring in the pence, but modelling was what I hankered after. Neville Armstrong gave me my first commission, so having Meg to turn my pots was a tremendous help. And sometimes, when the small kiln I’d built was filled to capacity, she would smuggle the overflow into Drayton’s and between us we would somehow smuggle them out again after they were fired, risking being found out — ’

  ‘Could you have been?’

  ‘Very easily. My brother examined every load both before and after firing, but when he went to London for his honeymoon we made the most of his absence. I remember climbing over that wall just before he was due to return and dropping the fired biscuit ware down to Amelia, one piece at a time — and
she didn’t break a thing, bless her. And when my shed was destroyed — ’

  ‘Destroyed! But how? By fire, by storm?’

  ‘By vandalism,’ he had answered, plainly wishing he had not said so much and refusing to say more, but Olivia, resolved to learn the truth, had given Amelia no peace until she did.

  ‘Joseph wrecked the place, my dear. The replica of Sir Neville’s horse won public praise for Martin, and Joseph was enraged. He found out the truth about Martin’s secret workshop and took his vengeance.’

  ‘Why did it have to be secret?’

  ‘Because his apprenticeship indentures ruled that he could work for no one else, nor absent himself at any time without the Master Potter’s consent. For nearly five years Joseph had prevented Martin from learning all he wished to learn or do the work he wanted to do. Jessica and Simon saw what was going on. So did I. Joseph was determined to keep his brother on the wheel for ever because he was a fine thrower. Unless he qualified in every branch, the terms of the legacy were null and void, so something had to be done to help him. Jessica and Simon did it, but of course it had to be in secret until his apprenticeship was up. And then, only two weeks short of the time, the truth came out. Two weeks before he should have earned his share of the Drayton legacy, Joseph dismissed him on the indisputable grounds that he had broken his indentures by not working exclusively for Drayton’s and for absenting himself without leave.’

  ‘How diabolically cruel!’

  ‘It was indeed, but worse was to come. I have always thought it was jealousy which drove him to even greater cruelty, for Joseph never possessed Martin’s talent and consequently always scorned it. The acclaim won by the Armstrong horse was the final straw. Under the cover of darkness, when the Kendalls were away from their cottage, he demolished Martin’s small workshop, which meant that Martin had lost everything. He had to start all over again, from the ground up, rebuilding his life as well.’