‘Doesn’t show,’ Archie said, inspecting the plates hanging on the wall. ‘I suppose it says something on the back?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ she laughed. It was a light, tinkling laugh, a very feminine sound. When he thought about it, he could scarcely remember his own mother laughing at all. When tea was over, Ernie took his friend upstairs.
‘I can’t wait for you to see what I’m getting for my birthday.’
‘That’s not for another two months, is it?’
‘No, but I wanted to get my order in early.’ In his room, Ernie had a large desk, untidily covered in papers, sketches and magazines. On top of the pile was a car magazine, left open to show the latest models. ‘There,’ he said excitedly, ‘what do you think of that?’ Archie stared at the picture.
‘You’re getting a car? But you aren’t old enough to drive it.’
‘No, but I will be when I get to my birthday. There’s a long waiting time for orders to get filled, so I’ve got to persuade my Dad to get the order in quickly. Think what a difference this is going to make to our little jaunts. We can go out to all sorts of places. No more hurrying home in case we miss the last bus. We’ll have the girls flocking round us. All begging for a trip in my car.’
‘It’s nice of you to include me, of course, but it’s going to be your car. You won’t want me tagging along.’
‘You’re my friend. We share things. I don’t want to be the one to get the girls on my own. Come on Archie. You should know me better than that.’
‘But don’t you realise Ernie? We could be from different countries. Different worlds. My Dad’s a miner. A coal ripper. He works right at the coal face, in the worst part of the mines. We live in a back to back terrace with a netty up the yard. We wash at the kitchen sink. I have to fetch coal up from a cellar every day before I go work. We don’t always have enough food on the table. I’m wearing my Sunday best today and look at the state of it. It was handed down from some cousin or other and it’s years old. It fitted me once, when I was fourteen.’
‘I’m sorry Archie. I’m sorry you even find it necessary to talk like that. You’re my best friend. My only friend. I wouldn’t care if you turned up in your father’s nightshirt. It isn’t clothes or houses I care about. It’s you.’
‘How could you know what it means to care about houses or clothes? Just take a look at yourself. Your mother rings a bell and someone brings in the tea. We have to stoke the fire to make a kettle boil. You’ve never had to go without anything. I’m sorry Ernie. But you just don’t understand. When I’m rich, I shall buy a house just like this one. I’ll have fancy plates on the wall as well as on the table. You’ve never been to my house, so you’ve got no idea of what it’s like to live the way we do. No idea at all.’
‘Come on lad. Don’t go all soft on me. I’m sorry I never realised as you felt this way. To me you’re still my friend, Archie. My very good friend and I hope you always will be. Now, let’s hear no more. Let’s go and have a bit of a sing round the piano till it’s supper time. You are staying for supper aren’t you? Me Mum’s expecting you to.’
The two young men went down the stairs to the drawing room. Archie was still nursing his grievances and Ernie was doing his best to make him forget there was any difference between them at all. The room was empty and they sat at the piano together, playing the well-remembered, childish songs that allowed both of them to forget that they were now almost grown ups. To Archie’s relief, Mr Draper did not appear until supper was served, around seven. Though Archie admired his boss a great deal, he felt shy with him now that their relationship had changed from being merely his son’s friend. His fears of awkwardness quickly disappeared with the accomplished social graces of Mrs Draper. The meal was as delicious as ever and the company friendly and hospitable. It was almost the end of the evening before Mr Draper spoke of work.
‘Have you seen what some of these new folk are producing, Archie?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly, sir,’ Archie replied, glancing at the other two at the table.
‘Suzie Cooper and Clarice Cliff. They’re really beginning to make an impact. Very bright colours on basic cream-ware. I’m not sure I like it much but it seems to be selling. And shapes. They’re moving from the traditional shapes. Lots of geometric shapes. Triangles and such. Have a look round the shops. See what you think, Archie. I’d like you to see what you can come up with.’
‘What, design summat meself?’ Mr Draper nodded.
Archie blushed and looked uncomfortable. These days, he never had the time to look in shops. His only free afternoon was on a Saturday and going to the match was sacred.
‘I’ll try, sir, but it isn’t easy. Shops are all closed by the time I get off work.’
‘Up to you, lad. Now, how about another slice of that excellent ham?’
Archie’s brain was buzzing as he walked home. Mr Draper must think something of him, if he asked such a thing. Somehow, he’d have to get to some shops and have a look round. Bright colour was the fashion, was it? Sounded right up his street. He was always saying there should be some colour in people’s lives. Mind you, it wasn’t exactly what he had planned. He wanted to learn some of the skills of the master painters. Paint pictures on plates that people could hang on their walls. Whatever direction he took, it was important to follow Mr Draper’s suggestions. He was being given chances that others in the factory weren’t. Maybe it was time to stop worrying that they thought he was getting favouritism. Maybe this was just the chance he needed to get on. He promised himself that he’d go and do a spot of window shopping the very next evening after work.
Clad in his working clothes and weary beyond words, it was a huge effort for Archie to make the trip into Burslem the next evening. The shops were all closing and he looked into the darkening windows to see the displays set out. To his eye, most of the pots looked crude, garish and though the colours were bright and cheerful, he knew he did not care much for this new craze. Art Deco they were calling it. Cups with triangles for handles. Square plates. Still, at least he now knew what they were talking about. He’d certainly enjoy coming up with some designs. He remembered the mathematical shapes he’d been learning about at school and knew that the sharp angles and intersecting circles would make for some interesting designs. Meantime, he should get home to face his mother’s wrath. He had said nothing about his proposed trip to town because she’d been in such a foul mood when he got home last night. She’d made sarcastic remarks the moment he had come into the house. He’d gone up to bed right away. He didn’t even hear whether Auntie Clarrie had turned up. He doubted it. She had simply been a fictitious weapon Frances was using to get at him. She was plain jealous. Again, he could feel a slight sympathy for her and her boring, unchanging life. What did she have to be pleased about? What did she have to look forward to? He sighed. It was no-one’s fault. His mother had no particular talents, ambition or even the will to improve herself. Even the neighbours had given up trying to be friendly. She’d made a career out of being difficult, unfriendly and bad-tempered. Not for the first time, he wondered why his Dad had married her. He wondered how long they’d been married but they never mentioned anything like anniversaries. In fact, they rarely remembered birthdays. He wouldn’t be getting a new car for his next birthday, that was certain. One day though, he’d have a suitably large car to park outside his big house.
‘I’m home,’ he called as he went into the scullery.
‘Your tea’s ruined,’ announced Frances. ‘Completely dried up. Been off with your posh friends again? Hope it was worth it.’
‘Sorry. I had an errand to do for Mr Draper.’
‘I should’ve thought he’d have plenty of people he could ask to do his errands. I bet he didn’t offer you any extra money.’
‘Something I wanted to do. Never mind about my tea. I’m not that hungry anyhow.’
‘Ungrateful brat,’ his mother snapped. ‘You could at least try to eat it.’
‘Sorry. I thought you s
aid it was inedible?’ He sat down at the table and with very bad grace, Frances took the plate out of the oven. It was quite edible, as much as any of her cooking was edible. ‘Thanks,’ he said over-politely. ‘It doesn’t look too bad at all.’
The following week, Archie spent every spare moment he could sketching, planning and looking at possible shapes he might show to Mr Draper. Knowing the various machines they had available for manufacturing, he tried to work out how new shapes could be produced. It was not as easy as he’d thought but he came up with several possible schemes. He felt shy about making the suggestions and wondered how best to present his ideas. There was no way he could just walk into Mr Draper’s office. Nor could he ask the dragon lady, Miss Baines, to pass them on. Finally, he decided on the mail as being the only way he could do it. He carefully rolled up his sketches, using an elastic band to secure them. He wrote an address label and put them into the mail box at the factory gate. He took care that no-one was watching him as he did it. This way, no-one would see the package was from him. Mr Draper would know. For the first time ever, he used the signature he had practised so many times before. It gave him a peculiar sense of pride.
The next week seemed to last forever. He heard nothing. No summons to Mr Draper’s office to discuss his designs nor any comments from the decorating shop, where he lingered as often as he could manage. He tried to show interest in the glost process, watching the skills of the dippers as they drew the pots through the thick glaze. They managed to entirely cover each item, flicking their wrists to shake off the excess glaze and placing them down again without leaving the faintest blemish. He thought it looked very easy and was just a matter of getting the knack. When he tried it for himself, he made a total mess of the piece. He returned to his job of fetching and carrying for the skilled men. He lost count of the number of times he went from one department to the next with trays of ware. He was fascinated by the under-glaze designs, where pattern was applied to the biscuit stage of the pottery, after the first firing. Patterns were applied to the highly absorbent body of the pots and then the glaze put over them. The result after the firing was the all over printed pattern, the favourite being Staffordshire blue tableware. It was like magic to Archie, seeing the magnificent patterns when they finally emerged from the kilns. He was surprised to discover that many of the workers never saw the finished results. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to work in one department, never knowing what went on in the others, nor even seeing the finished results.
‘I really like these plates, don’t you?’ he asked one of the other apprentices, one day.
‘They’re just plates,’ the boy replied.
‘But they look such a lovely colour after they’re finished.’
‘Dunno. Ain’t never seen ’em,’ he replied.
‘You must have done.’
‘All we want to know is how many we’ve pushed through at the end of the week. If it’s bin a good week, we get a decent wage packet.’
Archie couldn’t imagine being disinterested in any part of the work. It was what made it all worthwhile. He heard no more about his designs and questioning Ernie at the next football match gave him no information. Suddenly he realised he wasn’t anything special to Mr Draper. He was just another employee who also happened to know his son.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Archie had spent several months learning various techniques in the decorating shop. He worked hard to understand everything that was going on, especially the chemistry behind the colouring processes. The whole industry had undergone many changes as the need to improve working conditions was gaining ground. Glazes contained less of the poisonous lead than they used to and the colours they were using contained less harmful metal oxides. All the same, the rate of toxicity meant that greater control was developed over the way they were handled. More modern gas fired kilns were being used and the great bottle kilns were throwing slightly less pollution into the air.
He did little actual decorating and was still considered the lad who was sent to fetch and carry. Inevitably he was sent to find cat’s whisker paint or horses’ hoof paint and even a tin of elbow grease, until he realised they were sending him up. By the time he was asked for striped paintbrushes, he’d learned to smile and nod and didn’t fall for their tricks. They accepted him and settled down to work. He got used to carrying the long planks of finished ware to the room next to the kiln. He was careful and steady as he went, knowing that an accident would result in a huge loss to everyone in the department if there were any broken pieces. He watched the men who etched the copper plates to make transfers and spent some time working alongside the men and women who spent long days and enormous energy in scrubbing the flimsy paper down onto the pottery. He was constantly fascinated by the workers who could paint the same design, day after day with so little difference it was hard to believe the items were all individually hand painted. At lunch break, he would often try out his own skills on damaged pieces that were to be thrown out. Gradually, he learned how to apply the paint smoothly. Some pottery was air-brushed, where a larger area of colour was needed and then it was hand-finished when the paint was dry. It was everything he wanted. At last, he felt at home. This was where he wanted to be.
‘Could I have a go at painting a plate, for me Mum?’ he dared to ask one day.
‘You can, as long as you fit it into your own time. You can come and work with me at dinner, provided you make me a good cuppa before you start.’ Archie nodded happily. This was Thomas, one of the top painters in the company, one of the masters who was allowed to sign his own name alongside the manufacturer’s name on the bottom of the plates. ‘So, what do you fancy having a go at?’
‘I thought I’d do some flowers. We never have flowers in our house or in the back-yard, so I thought it’d cheer things up a bit.’
‘Does your Mum like flowers?’ he asked.
‘I dunno. I dunno if she even looks at them. But everyone likes flowers, don’t they?’
‘I reckon you’re right lad. Now, how about a test run with that teapot before we start?’
Archie went over to the grate where a fire burned to warm up the room. It was the only place in the factory where such consideration was given. It was a sign of how highly these skilled craftsmen were ranked in the business. He filled the blackened kettle and looked for the teapot.
Thomas Bryant arranged a space at his bench and started Archie to work on his first ever attempt at painting a plate. These china plates were specially designed for hanging and had no rim. It was a smooth, slightly concave surface, glazed and fired and ready to be turned into a masterpiece.
‘You need to work out some idea of what your design will be,’ Thomas instructed. ‘Then you lightly draw the main lines with the finest brush. Use the light grey pigment, then it will cover over if you change your mind. That’s it. Go on. Be confident.’
Tongue hanging out in concentration, Archie carefully painted the first lines. His hand shook slightly and the lines wobbled.
‘Doesn’t matter, lad. Get the feel of your tools. Feel how the paint flows from the end of the brush.’ Archie tried again. This time it was better, though the lines still tended to go in slightly the wrong direction. ‘OK. You know what colours the flowers will be?’ Archie nodded.
‘Nice bright pinks and yellow. There has to be plenty of yellow.’
‘OK. Now you need to decide on the background colours. What will show off your flowers best?’
‘Green, I s’pose? Or brown, like soil.’
‘Look at my plate. Can you see how I’ve made the background dark, mixed colours to make the flowers stand out well? Neither brown nor green. You need to colour that in a bit first, so you don’t have to paint right up to the flowers. You can always wipe it away before it dries, if you get it wrong. Like painting a wash over the paper before you paint a picture.’
‘I haven’t ever used paints to make a picture. I missed out on art at school ’cos I had to do Latin. I’ve only ever drawn with a p
encil.’
‘Maybe you should try painting on paper first.’ The artist looked thoughtful. This lad was so keen but he really didn’t have a lot of idea about the job. ‘Let’s see how you do with this first, if you like.’ Archie shot him a look of gratitude. He couldn’t wait to get started properly. He didn’t have time to draw stuff on paper, like planning essays at school. It was always much better to get right on with the job. This was all a sort of planning and he wanted to spread the colours properly, on his mother’s plate.
By the end of his dinner break, his stomach was empty but his mind was full of colour and designs. He’d made a start on his plate but there was nothing like enough time for him to really get the feel of the job. Towards the end of the day, Thomas beckoned him over again.
‘You can clean off my palette if you like. There’s some good background colours there.’ To Archie’s delight, the craftsman stayed with him for an extra half an hour while he painted round the edge of his plate. ‘Right,’ he said after the paint was almost gone, ‘you can clear up the table for me. Leave your plate on one side to dry off overnight. Tomorrow you can begin on the flowers. What sort will you paint? Roses, maybe?’
‘I hadn’t thought,’ Archie admitted. He didn’t know a great deal about flowers. He only knew the ones that he’d seen at work when he was watching the flower makers at work one day. The carefully made china shapes were put together and magically turned into exquisite looking tiny blooms. They looked fragile and ghostly in the dull grey clay. When they’d been assembled into pots, fired and then painted, they looked as if the dew should still have rested on every petal. Yes, he’d paint roses. He knew exactly what they looked like and Thomas wouldn’t think him a total idiot. He really must look carefully at the flower beds in the park, if he went again. Usually, his eyes had caught only the blocks of bright colour, without noticing individual flowers.
Each day for the next week, Archie worked away at his painting whenever he had a moment. If it looked uneven, he would carefully remove the paint using a piece of cotton wool wrapped round the end of the brush and dipped in some sort of spirit. Gradually, the picture grew and though slightly out of proportion, was quite passable. Thomas was struck by young man’s enthusiasm and recognised that he had the makings of an artist. Most of all, he was impressed by the boy’s dedication.
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