Rough Clay

by Chrissie Loveday

  Ernie’s house was a large, detached house in a quiet road not far from the school. They walked home, talking about things that had happened during the day. Archie looked up at the ornate roof with shiny grey tiles and decorative reddish trim on the ridge. The front had several different colours of brickwork, making patterns over the doors and windows.

  ‘It’s a very smart looking house,’ Archie said conversationally. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Come on. We’ll do our homework first and then we can play the piano a bit. We’ll have supper when Dad gets home.’

  A maid let them in and Ernie called out to his Mother, as he dragged his friend up the biggest staircase he’d ever seen outside of the school buildings. An elegant lady came out of one of the rooms.

  ‘Ernie, please. Where are your manners.’ Her voice was soft and there was little trace of the local accent.

  ‘Sorry, Mother. This is Archie. Archie, this is my Mother.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Draper,’ Archie said carefully. He tried to remove some of his own natural accent, mimicking that of his hostess. ‘I’m Archie Barnett. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And I you, dear. Now would you both like a drink of milk? I think there may be some fresh scones, too.’

  ‘Do you want some, Archie?’ Ernie asked impatiently.

  ‘Yes please,’ he said, his stomach rumbling at the very thought. How often his stomach longed for food when he got home from school but he always had to wait until the evening meal was ready.

  ‘Go into the lounge then. I’ll ask Perkins to bring something on a tray.’

  Archie sat uncomfortably on the edge of one of the many chairs in the room.

  ‘Where’s your piano, then?’ Archie asked after a few minutes.

  ‘Oh that. In the other sitting room. Mother calls it the drawing room. I think it’s a stupid name for a room. You never draw in there.’ Ernie laughed at his little joke but it was quite lost on Archie. The maid came in carrying a large tray. There were two glasses of milk and a plate of the most wonderful looking scones Archie had ever seen. There was a dish with jam and two smaller plates.

  ‘Wow,’ Archie said later, having eaten three scones and emptied the jam dish. ‘That was so good. Really taken the edge off my appetite.’

  ‘Hope it hasn’t spoiled your supper. There’s a meat and potato pie and I know there’s a treacle tart for afters.’

  Archie grinned. Nothing could spoil his appetite. He’d already eaten as much as he normally did in an evening, and this was only the start.

  ‘Shall we get to the homework? Old Scratcher’ll kill us tomorrow, if we haven’t done it.’

  By the time they sat down for supper, Archie had got over his nervousness. He gazed longingly at the delicate china plates and fingered the pattern on the side plates. He picked one up and peered at the maker’s stamp underneath.

  ‘Draper’s Fine Bone China,’ he read aloud. ‘Smart looking stuff, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Draper frowned almost imperceptibly. Ernie’s father laughed at the boy’s enthusiasm.

  ‘The best. Well, the best for the price. We don’t match up to Doulton’s of course, but who knows, one day?’

  ‘How do you get the colours to stay on?’ Archie asked, staring at the fresh looking flowers that adorned the edges of his plate.

  ‘Well, it’s special paint and it’s fired on. Put in kilns and cooked until it’s done.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that. I knew it was fired to make it hard but I’ve always wondered about the rest of the processes.’

  ‘You must get Ernie to bring you for a look round one day. He can give you a guided tour. Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh wow, yes please. I’d like it more than anything.’ The boy sat with shining eyes. He’d known it was important to make this visit. Now he began to see why.

  ‘If you come one Saturday morning, you’ll see plenty happening. We finish at dinner time. We usually go to watch the Vale in the afternoon. You could come along with us if you like.’

  Archie’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head. Port Vale footballers were the local heroes. To actually go to a football match was something unheard of in his family. Visit a potbank and then go to the match. It sounded like heaven. Then he remembered his delivery job and his world crashed back to reality.

  ‘I do a job on Saturdays,’ he admitted miserably. ‘I can’t let them down.’

  ‘All right, lad. Maybe you could see round the works one day in the holidays. Pity about the match but I understand. I like a lad who puts duty before pleasure. Now, who’s for a bit more of this pie?’

  It was almost nine by the time Archie returned to the dark back-streets that were home. The air was thicker, dirtier and smelled much more of soot at this end of town. He walked over the cobbles of the back entry and pushed open the battered back gate. It stuck on its rusty hinges as usual, as if trying to make a point and bring him back to his own world. His Mum was sitting in the dim light, staring into the fire.

  ‘Dad gone to work?’ he asked.

  ‘Course he has. Wherever’ve you been till now? I was about to send out a search party.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I thought I might as well make the most of it. Mr Draper’s invited me for a look round his factory. And you should see the china plates they have for eatin’ off. So thin you can almost see through them if you hold them up to the light. And they’ve got lovely patterns on them. Flowers and real gold at the edges. I thought only royalty ate off stuff like that. Still, if you’re in the trade, I s’pose you have to.’

  ‘What a lot of nonsense, Archie. I knew it was a mistake to try and let you mix with toffs, not our sort of people. I s’pose you want all this fancy stuff on our table. Rubbish. Why waste money on things like that?’

  ‘Just ’cos it’s lovely, our Mum. Like having real flowers on the table.’

  ‘Aye, well. For them as got money to waste. D’ya want owt?’

  ‘No thanks, Mum. I couldn’t eat another thing. In fact, I think I feel a bit queasy. I’ll just go up the yard, a minute.’ The larger than usual quantities of food were beginning to lie rather heavily in his stomach.

  ‘Crikey,’ he muttered as he groped his way along to the outside lavatory, ‘I hope I’m not sick. It’d be a terrible waste of all that good food.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After the war was finally over, everyone had expected things to return to the way they always had been. As the soldiers returned back home, they soon realised that things would never be quite the same again. Many of them were wounded, if not in body, then in mind. A few were fit enough to return to their former work but many of them were forced to take less demanding jobs. The excitement of war ending and new beginnings for everyone never seemed to live up to the promise. For Archie, school remained fascinating but as money grew tighter, the family had to face the inevitable.

  ‘Your Dad and me have to talk to you,’ his mum said a few days before his fourteenth birthday.

  ‘What’s up, Mum?’ he asked cheerfully, expecting her to ask him to do a few extra chores. William was still suffering from very poor health and now he was almost three, he needed extra medicine and even the occasional doctor’s visit.

  ‘We’ll wait for your Dad. Now, have you done your homework?’

  ‘No. Just going to do it.’ He stared at his mother. Usually, she tried to get him to do anything, rather than suggest homework. ‘Oh, Mrs Draper’s asked me round again, by the way. On Friday. Is it OK?’

  ‘We’ll have to see, son,’ Frances replied. She looked upset but took a breath and snapped at him in her usual way.

  After tea that evening, William was put to bed and Archie sat down between his solemn faced parents.

  ‘This is hard for me to say, Archie. You must have realised things have got much tougher lately. The thing is, I’ve been taken off night shifts. The colliery’s going on to short time now the war’s over. The night shift is the first to be cut back. They’ve tried to make it fair a
nd cut everyone’s time so they don’t have to sack too many but it means that we’re going to be very strapped for cash.’

  ‘I see. Maybe I could get some more errands?’

  ‘It’s more serious than that, lad,’ his mother said. ‘We need more than a few pennies.’

  ‘How d’ya mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry but there’s nowt for it but you leavin’ that posh school you’re so fond of.’ The words came out in a rush and Archie almost failed to understand.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad. So very sorry,’ Dad said. ‘I know how much it means to you.’

  ‘What d’ya mean? I’ll have to stop going to school for ever?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Ralph replied.

  ‘It was never a good idea in the first place,’ Frances snapped. ‘I was always against it. Giving you ideas that you’re summat special. Better than the rest of us. You start work Monday.’

  ‘On Monday?’ Archie echoed. ‘Next Monday.’

  ‘Aye, lad,’ his Dad said gently. ‘Mr Copestake’s come up with a job for you. Don’t worry, you won’t have to go down the pit. It’s on the surface. You’ll be working in the office. I told him you’ve got a real feel for numbers and he’s going to give you a chance to help the clerks out. It won’t pay much but it’ll make up the difference between what I was getting and my wages after the cut backs.’

  ‘But Dad. Mum. I can’t work at the pit. I just can’t. Everything’s so black there. The air’s grey and so are the people. Everything’s dirty and . . .’ The boy’s voice failed him. All his dreams of working in the china factory, were disappearing. His visions of beautiful things to lighten their drab, grey lives were vanishing.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, boy,’ his Mother said roughly. ‘Your Father’s worked there all his life and he doesn’t complain. Besides, the pot banks are hardly clean, are they? Just ’ave to look at the smoke pouring out of them kilns. Filthy places.’

  ‘I didn’t do very well in maths this term,’ Archie lied rebelliously. ‘I doubt I’d be any good at working in the offices.’ He scrubbed fiercely at his eyes, trying to stop the tears from streaming down. He bit hard at his knuckles. His Mother would pour scorn on him if he broke down now.

  ‘I’m sorry, son. I’ve really let you down, haven’t I?’ Archie looked hard at him as his Father spoke. The kindly man looked as if he were about to burst into tears as well. Poor Ralph. He’d always tried so hard to keep his first son at school and his efforts had failed.

  ‘’S’all right,’ he managed to stammer. ‘But I’d still like to go to the Drapers’ on Friday.’ With that, he turned and ran upstairs to the small, cold room he shared with his little brother. He stared at the sleeping toddler and cursed him. Then he felt very bad.

  ‘Poor little sod. You didn’t ask to be born, did you? It isn’t your fault if you’re always being ill.’ He leaned over and gave him a guilty peck on the cheek. Then, fully clad, he lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was almost dark. He put his mind to thinking, thinking harder than he had ever done in his life before. He dreaded the next two or three days . . . his last days at his beloved school. He’d had such high hopes that it would make all the difference. But this wasn’t the reality. He must leave it all behind and forget his dreams. At least he’d be spared the unkind taunts and gibes of some of the other boys. Because there were rarely any faults in his work, they found other things to ridicule. The blazer he had worn so proudly was now threadbare. They laughed at his socks which were definitely not regulation but his mother’s old stockings, folded down into his shoes. They too were becoming worn out and more than once, he’d padded out the soles with pieces of old card. But he could cope with any amount of derision knowing he was better at most things than they were. And he had his friend Ernie. Their friendship had continued over the months and Archie had become a regular visitor at their home. He and Ernie played the piano together and sometimes they even sang some of the popular songs of the day, learned from records played on the brand new wind-up gramophone recently bought by Mr Draper. He had an ability to pick up a tune and play it on the piano, a talent envied by Ernie who often struggled with his lessons.

  The factory owner had kept his word and shown the boys round the factory one day during the holidays. Archie had never forgotten it. The magical smells of paint and turps, linseed oil and the huge numbers of paintbrushes set at the desks of the paintresses. He marvelled even at the palettes, in reality tiles, covered in heaps of multicoloured splodges, making their own statement. The rest of the factory had been interesting but it was the decorating shops that really enthused and inspired him. He had stood for as long as he was allowed, watching the women putting the delicate swirls of colour on the pottery. He was fascinated by some of the odd colours before they were fired.

  ‘You can hardly believe that funny brown colour will come out bright blue when it’s cooked . . . fired, I mean. And the reds look almost black sometimes.’

  Some of the plates had what seemed like real pictures painted on them. Birds, fruit, flowers; each was a unique work of art, like a painting. Only the master painters were working on these and the ‘girls’ would fill in the simpler parts of the borders or some blocks of colour. Some of the plates were edged with transfers, strips of tissue-like material that were burnt away in the firing. These plates were much quicker to make and so were cheaper to buy. When Archie saw them, he promised himself that when he worked in a factory like this one, he would buy a set of plates for his Mum. Then, she might begin to understand why he wanted to follow his dream.

  He gave a start and returned to the reality of a dark room and lying on his bed in his clothes. The house was silent. He must have fallen asleep and now his parents had also gone to bed. He felt once again his anger at his parents’ plans for his future. He almost wished he’d never attended the wretched school in the first place. Perhaps his parents were right. It could then have remained a dream of what might have been. This was his punishment for being proud, for thinking himself so much better than he was. He’d thought himself better than his own father, a man who’d always worked so hard for his family, never even considering his own wishes. Maybe, once his dad had also had dreams. Maybe he’d wanted to make something better of his life. He got up and removed his school clothes. He’d cop another scolding in the morning when everything was creased and there was no time to press anything. What did it matter? There would only be a few more days. He rubbed his eyes hard to remove the tears that were gathering. His mother would be very scornful if she knew he was crying. She didn’t believe in it or any other emotions, come to that.

  He dozed on and off through the night. Each time he awoke, he felt the heaviness of disappointment tumble over him. He tried not to go to sleep at all, so that he didn’t have to keep waking up and feeling so bad all over again. At six o’clock, he got up quickly and dressed. He could hear his mother downstairs. The fire was riddled noisily, a sign of her bad temper. He heard the kettle banged onto the hob. At least he’d get a cup of tea. He ought not to grumble. He was coming up to fourteen that year. He’d had more schooling than many of the lads around here. But to go to work in the pit. He couldn’t face it.

  ‘You look a mess,’ his mother announced as he came down the stairs.

  ‘Sorry. Is the kettle nearly boiled?’

  ‘I reckon so. D’ya want a piece of bread and dripping?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’m starving.’

  They said little more to each other, each busy with their own thoughts. They were like two strangers who had run out of pleasantries.

  ‘You’ll have to send a letter to the headmaster,’ Archie said, at last.

  ‘You can tell ’im, can’t you?’

  ‘It will have to be official, like. He might not believe me.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ she said with a blank expression.

  ‘Cos some lads try it on all the time. ’Sides, there’s the scholarship I won. The school has to
give it to someone else. And we might have to pay the money back,’ he added out of sheer devilment.

  ‘Load o’ rot if you ask me.’

  ‘Well, if you want me to leave, you have to say so in writing.’ Archie spoke firmly, gazing at his mother with clear green eyes. She stared back, undergoing inner turmoil. She and her son both knew she could neither read nor write legibly. The boy was quite intelligent enough to recognise that her bluster was designed to cover her own inadequacies.

  ‘You’d best ask your Dad this evening. Now get off with you. You’ll be late and then they’ll be givin’ ya the push anyhow.’

  Archie set out on the long walk to school. It was early spring and a bright sunny day. Even the heavy layer of dark cloud which usually hung over the whole area was penetrated by shafts of sun. Ernie was waiting at the school gate.

  ‘Wotcha,’ he called. ‘How did you get on with that Latin homework? I got stuck. Wished you lived a bit nearer so I could ask you.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Archie admitted. Once the dreadful conversation had begun last night, all thoughts of homework had totally left his mind.

  ‘Old Scratcher’ll kill ya,’ Ernie exclaimed. ‘Blimey. Not like you to miss out on your homework.’

  ‘I’n’t worth it. Don’t tell anyone will you?’ His friend shook his head. ‘I’m leaving at the end of this week. Have to get a job. Me Dad’s bin put on short time.’

  ‘Crikey. I’ll miss ya, lad,’ Ernie said, a look of horror on his face. How on earth would he manage without Archie? The other lads teased him and called him names, just because he liked music and hated sport. ‘Where you going to work?’

  ‘Me Dad’s fixed something at the pit. Above ground, thank heavens.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted to work in the potbanks.’

  ‘Course I do but who’d take me on? I don’t know anything. I can draw a bit but I’m not good enough for any of the decent firms.’