by Rona Randall
“Being praised by Neville Armstrong appears to have gone to your head.”
“He has done much for me. Through his library I learned things I was craving to learn, and I learned from books such as my father once owned and which you destroyed — ” He broke off. His voice quietened. “I learned other things, too.” Martin levelled on his brother the penetrating glance he had levelled on him frequently of late — knowledgeable, accusing.
It remained imprinted on Joseph’s mind as he stalked out of his mother’s house, leaving her shaken with fear because she recognised the white-hot heat which signalled his menacing, destructive rage.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The thaw was swift and unexpected. When Rose drew her mistress’s curtains next morning she looked on a world of dripping trees in a watery sun. Patches of ever widening green marked the lawns and the driveway was thick with slush. It would be worse as the day progressed. The village below would be flooded with melting snow from the hills, the lanes a quagmire. It had happened before. One year the marlpit had swollen into a bog of slime, oozing across to the Gibsons’ hovel, lapping at their door. Meg Gibson had had to tie up her skirts to wade through it barefoot to get to work. Rose had seen her at the village pump later, washing off the muck though it seemed a waste of time in such weather, but the trollop had always been fussy about the way she looked. Vain all through. Since coming to Carrion House, Rose no longer mixed with the likes of her.
“Thaw’s set in, Mistress. Fast, too. Lucky it didn’t come last night, with all them folks on the ice!”
Banking her mistress’s pillows and wrapping a befrilled and beribboned bed shawl about her, Rose then placed the silver salver on her lap and enquired how her mistress fared this morning, receiving only a copious yawn and a scowl in reply. Rose knew the signs. It meant the master had not come to her last night. She didn’t have to sleep at the foot of her mistress’s bed to know when she had spent the entire night alone. After a visit from the Master Potter his wife would purr like a well-fed cat. When neglected, she sulked.
So Rose was not surprised by the yawn and the scowl. She departed willingly, leaving Mistress Drayton lapping the froth off the top in the way the master couldn’t abide. Rose had once seen the look on his face at the sight of it.
But this morning he had not yet risen, which was unusual. His freshly polished boots stood sentinel outside his bedroom door, waiting to be taken in. It must have been quite a night, over at Sir Neville Armstrong’s. The line of carriages ploughing their way to his door had been endless, the coachman had said down in the kitchens this morning. But the drivers had been well looked after, with braziers to keep them warm and good food and ale into the bargain.
Up at dawn as usual, the staff had nonetheless been eager to talk about the celebrations. Even Mrs Walker had joined in, for she too had boarded one of the wagons for the canal festivities. As for Pierre, who had sat next to Rose all the way there and back, even he had conceded that the ox roasting had been good. Oozing with beef dripping and rich with gravy, she remembered it with relish. And oh, that spiced ale! Fair gone to her head, it had.
Pierre’s too, perhaps; leastways, he hadn’t minded when she snuggled up to him. His arm had gone round her boldly, devil that he was. But what a handsome one! She had been the target for many an envious female glance, except from Meg Gibson, sitting close to the potman from the Red Lion. The pair had had eyes for none but each other, but with a handsome Frenchman paying court to her, Rose had not envied Meg one bit. What sort of life could an ill-paid potman give a wench, even if he were prepared to wed her? A French cook at a big house was far better game.
Retreating along the landing from her mistress’s room, Rose saw the master’s boots still outside his door. It must have been a late night indeed, otherwise he would have been up and offto the pottery at his usual hour. The coachman had already brought his chaise to the front door and gone back to the kitchens, waiting to be summoned. If breakfast were late, it would put Pierre in a bad mood for the rest of the morning. She only hoped the master would not be the same, otherwise she would get the backwash of it from his wife. A tiff between them always rebounded onto her, the nearest target for Mistress Drayton’s displeasure.
The chocolate tasted better this morning. It was odd how it was sometimes nicer than at other times. Agatha could never pinpoint these occasions, but she had once remarked to Joseph that it had a strange sort of flavour which she could not place.
“You said that once before, when I brought it to you personally.”
“Did I, my love? I do not recall.”
“But I do. If my bringing it makes it distasteful, I won’t waylay Rose in future.”
“Oh, my darling, I meant no such thing!” Such a suggestion appalled her, for she was always very touched when Joseph brought it to her. ‘Drink it at once,’ he would say. “Don’t sip it, though I know you enjoy relishing it slowly, like a cat lapping cream.”
How she had laughed! He had smiled as he listened to her, and when she dipped her tongue into it, curling it back into her mouth with a delicious dollop on the end, he had smiled even more. So different from the early days, when she had somehow felt that the habit displeased him. But that is what love does to a man, she thought now as she licked and licked. His increasing attention demonstrated his increasing devotion, and she no longer had to beg him to come to her bed.
Soon the shining beaker he had promised would replace the usual cup and then no doubt the chocolate would taste best of all, because he had personally selected it from the pottery’s stock and mixed a special glaze to match the one he had applied to his father’s. Many people might regard it as a humble present, but to her it would be precious because it came from him.
She felt tired this morning, not because the night had been late — indeed, they had left Ashburton long before anyone else, which had disappointed her because the refreshments had been delicious and she had felt not a twinge of indigestion afterwards — but because she had waited a long time for him to come to her. It had been a further disappointment when he did not. He had insisted on her retiring immediately they returned, telling her he had some papers to attend to which might keep him up late, but assuring her that he would see if she were still awake when he had finished…
And she had believed him. She had waited for him, naked and voluptuous. Before climbing into bed she had viewed herself with satisfaction, pitying all skinny women. How disappointing men must find them, and how Rembrandt would have delighted to use her as a model. (Or was it Rubens who painted all those well curved ladies? She really wasn’t sure, having no interest in art.)
Eventually she must have slept, though she recalled stirring at some point, roused by a door closing nearby. It sounded like Joseph’s, and through the mists of sleep anticipation had returned. He was on his way to her. He had worked late and was coming at last. He had gone to his room, undressed, and was now about to open her door…but nothing had happened. She had remained awake for some time, aware of a world stirring outside, of the distant crowing of cocks, of the steady drip-drip of water beyond the windows. There had been no need for Rose to tell her the thaw had come, for she had heard it in the early hours, waiting for a husband who did not appear. Eventually she had decided that the closing door indicated his late retirement. His papers had kept him up longer than expected. Forlornly, she had donned her nightgown and given up hope.
And now, feeling solitary and neglected and consoling herself with Rose’s delicious chocolate, she recalled something else. Had it been in dreams or in reality that the closing door had been preceded by the sound of wheels on gravel?
Martin arrived at the pottery earlier than anyone next morning, pride compelling him to leave his wheel and workbench in good order so that Joseph would have no reason to accuse him of leaving both in a state of neglect.
He had slept little that night, kept awake by smouldering anger and excited anticipation. At least he now knew where he stood, and he was not wholly
surprised by Joseph’s dismissal. Angry about it, yes. Furious because his brother had seized the opportunity to deny him any share in the family pottery, but it was no use bemoaning the fact that the Drayton legacy had passed him by. He was at least free to concentrate on doing what he most wanted to do. He was his own master, and before long he could put up a sign announcing it. ‘MARTIN DRAYTON, MASTER POTTER’. And perhaps one day John Wesley would see it and know his advice had been heeded. Never be idle a moment. Never be triflingly employed. Never while away time.
He would continue as he had started, of course; in a small way, accepting any orders that came along, including those which no established potter would bother with — requests for a single plate to match a family set, an odd bowl to complete a number, a figure of a much loved pet, miscellaneous cooking pots; nothing was ever too small for a potter working single-handed. Last night many people had expressed their interest, but whether such interest would be followed up, remained to be seen. Meanwhile, working full time, he would increase his stock and peddle it around the countryside, as early Draytons had done. The prospect didn’t deter him. It was challenging.
Cleaning a wheel was a messy business, involving not only the removal of clay reduced to liquid, but cleaning the axle and treadle also. Beneath the deep bowl housing the wheel, cables operated at the thrust of the treadle, the shaft which turned the wheel spiralling upward. By the time his fellow workers arrived Martin had cleaned it thoroughly, oiled the necessary parts, and started scrubbing the bench on which his completed pots stood on individual batts, covered to retain moisture overnight then uncovered for gradually increasing periods until reaching the leatherhard stage, ready for turning.
All these would now have to go to Meg.
His diligence attracted little comment, for most throwers took a pride in the state of their wheels because working on a neglected one was frustrating, but when he finally discarded his potter’s ‘slop’ and hung it on its wooden peg, they were surprised. Even more so when he explained the reason for it.
“I’m leaving,” he said, “for good.”
Their shock and disappointment should have pleased him; instead, it saddened him. Working alongside them for five years, he had grown to like and respect them, and the feeling was reciprocated. They watched him walk out of the shed for the last time and, glancing eloquently at each other, expressed the opinion that the Master Potter must have taken leave of his senses to let a good man go. “His own brother too! How could he do a thing like that?”
But someone, wiser than the rest, remarked that there was no worse jealousy than that of one brother for another. Like Cain and Abel.
“There’s a stack of pots on my bench,” Martin told Meg. “I would be obliged if you would deal with them when their turn comes. I’m afraid that will mean collecting them, since I won’t be here to bring them to you. I’ll be working for myself from now on.”
Her face was a mixture of surprise, pleasure, and alarm. Alarm won.
“Don’t tell me the Master Potter’s found out, sir! ‘T’would be merry hell if he did!”
“Merry hell it was, Meg.”
Her face clouded. “What’s he done? Kicked you out?”
“Yes, but in a way I am not sorry. Now I have my own place I can work there full time.”
“I’ll miss thee, Master Martin. Everybody will. It’s a right shame, that’s what it is. You be one of the best potters Drayton’s ever turned out. Not that the master can be praised for that. He always tried to keep you down. The day’ll come when he’ll regret it.” She hesitated, then added that she hoped she wasn’t speaking out of turn, but the Master Potter had a deal to answer for, and answer for it he would, one day.
“So you believe in the law of the just, do you, Meg?”
“Aye, Master Martin. That I do.”
She added that if he needed any turning jobs done before she left Burslem, she would do them and gladly.
“You are going away, Meg?” He didn’t know why he should be surprised.
“Not yet awhile. Frank Tinsley wants to wed me and take me back to Liverpool.”
Martin said sincerely that he was glad. “He is a good man, Meg, and you deserve a good man.”
It was goodbye to Jefferson next. The glazer was sorry, but encouraging. “Any problems about glazing and I’m your man, Master Martin. And the day will surely come when you walk back into this potter’s yard, but it won’t be as a thrower. It’ll be summat more important. You’re going to be missed, and folk are only missed if they be useful.”
Next, the chief fire man, who echoed Jefferson. Martin was on the point of departure when the man said, “There be something here worth seeing, Master Martin, since you be starting out on your own.” He crossed to the latest batch of firing, cooled in the kiln. “I found this tucked in a corner, which surprised me because I do every loading and know every piece that goes in. The Master Potter must’ve added it when I weren’t around; it matches those pieces you made for your father, the ones your brother glazed — the same colour and the same majolica, only this one’s turned out matt because it was in a low temperature batch. Maybe the master didn’t realise that, or maybe he wanted that effect. Anyways, I thought you’d be interested to see the difference high and low temperatures can make, though no doubt you know that already. But this piece is a good example…”
It was a stock beaker, but individually glazed. Martin examined it thoughtfully, then asked if he might borrow it.
“For awhiles, why not, sir? But best bring it back. Master Potter likes to inspect all firings when they’re taken out and gets mighty raged if I lose or damage a piece, and since this one must be his because no one else knows ow’t about it — not a worker in the place has ever seen it afore — there’d be real trouble if ow’t happened to it.”
Martin found a quiet corner in which to examine the article. Why his brother should personally glaze a perfectly ordinary beaker, not individually designed but taken from a mass of identical stock pieces, baffled him. There was nothing special about it, nothing to merit individual attention. And since the Master Potter merely supervised manual work and his limited experience on the creative side had no outlet, a decision to decorate such a homely piece seemed inexplicable.
But the fire man had insisted that the glaze was the same as before, lacking the high gloss only because it had been fired at a different temperature. Had Joseph not realised that the next firing was to be lower? That seemed unlikely. It therefore seemed that the final result, whether high gloss or matt, had been immaterial to him, in which case the depth of colour had also mattered little.
So why use the same glaze formula?
The pot was still slightly warm, but not enough to craze were he to take it into the cold temperature outside, and fortunately the matt glaze was softer than a high gloss. Both these facts would facilitate analysis were a portion to be scraped off, but Martin resisted the temptation to steal the piece for examination in his own workshop; wisdom persuaded him to add no further fuel to his brother’s fire. Even so, he felt compelled to face him without delay.
Wrapping the article to maintain its warmth, Martin crossed the potter’s yard to the new presiding office. He had not seen Joseph arrive, but the door was slightly ajar. This surprised him, since Joseph was meticulous about keeping it shut. He liked people to knock deferentially. Since he was no longer an apprentice, Martin now declined to. He pushed the door open and walked in.
A man looked up, startled, but it was not Joseph. It was Max Freeman, and he was at the old-fashioned table Joseph had formerly used and which, Agatha had said, was to be dispensed with once it had been cleared.
Max appeared to be doingjust that. One drawer had been thrown to the floor and the other stood open. Both had plainly been forced, and Martin had the impression that the batch of papers Max held had just been seized.
Briefly, Phoebe’s husband stood transfixed, then he thrust the papers deep into a pocket and said, much relieved, “Thank God, it�
��s you and not Joseph! He’s late this morning. That proves the Almighty is on my side, eh?’ He winked hugely as he added, ‘Help me put these things back, there’s a good fellow — ”
“What on earth are you up to? What have you taken?”
“Nothing that doesn’t belong to me,” said Max, well pleased.
He picked up the discarded drawer and its scattered contents, pushing them back haphazardly, and it was then that some white substance spilled onto the red Turkey carpet. Max swore soundly and rubbed at the spot with his foot, remarking that it might catch Joseph’s eye and give the game away, that he would prefer that not to happen until he was off the premises, but Martin scarcely heard. He was retrieving a small package from which the substance had spilled, then rubbing some of it between forefinger and thumb before resealing. Max’s farewell comment sailed over his head. “No matter,” his brother-in-law said cheerfully, “the swine cannot touch me now! And what a bonfire these will make!” Glancing toward Martin he finished, “Watch out for that stuff, whatever it is — it’s spilling all down you.”
Absently, Martin brushed his clothes, scarcely aware of Max pushing the drawers into place and taking a hurried departure.
It was scarcely necessary to get Jefferson’s confirmation. Martin knew instinctively what the substance was, so he felt no surprise when the man nodded and said, “Aye, that be white lead, Master Martin, and no mistake.”
Leaving the glazing shed thoughtfully, Martin saw his brother’s chaise arriving and, emboldened, went to meet him.
“I’d like a word with you, brother.”
“All has been said that need be said. You now have no right to be on these premises, so I suggest you go to your own.” An unreadable smile flickered across Joseph’s face as he added, “I am sure you must be anxious to get to work. There must be a deal of it waiting for you.”