Firebird

by Iris Gower

  She stood in the bedroom, staring out of the neatly curtained window, and watched as the vicars left the house, cassocks moving in the breeze, giving the impression that they were gliding rather than walking. Maura closed her eyes and said a quick prayer before making up the beds.

  Joe climbed to the top of Poppets Hill and sat staring out at the panorama of the town and beyond to where the sea stretched as far as the eye could see. It was good to be in the fresh autumn air, to feel once more like a free spirit. Within the confines of the pottery buildings, he was beginning to feel caged.

  He should be flying across the plains with the eagles, running with the wild buffalo. He longed for the sounds and scents of the place where he was born and yet he knew he would not leave, his destiny was here with a girl called Llinos.

  Nightingale or maybe Linnet, that was what her name meant in English. He had asked the old man who fired the ovens to translate it for him and Joe had been enchanted with the reply. She was a bird of flight and beauty, his Firebird. It was an appropriate name for the woman he would spend his life with.

  Llinos did not know it yet, at least not with the conscious part of her mind. Perhaps, deep down in the recesses of her soul, there was some hint of what was to come. She had recognized him at once just as he had recognized her. And yet she could not identify the feeling. She had never met him except perhaps in the dreamtime world.

  ‘Afternoon. Taking the air, are you?’ The voice was familiar and Joe turned, without surprise, to see Eynon Morton-Edwards coming towards him.

  ‘It’s beautiful up here,’ Joe said. ‘You can see for miles from the vantage point of the hill.’

  Eynon sank onto the grass beside Joe. ‘You are an odd mixture, old chap.’

  ‘I expect I am, half native, half white man, you could say it was an odd mixture.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, well not quite,’ Eynon said. ‘You speak in cultured accents and yet you look as if you are . . . poised for flight.’

  ‘Fanciful but not too far from the truth,’ Joe said. ‘You are very perceptive.’

  ‘I know that the people of the row view you with suspicion,’ Eynon said. ‘They are startled by the darkness of your hair and the red gold of your skin.’ He smiled. ‘And I think the fact that you are so obviously well-educated adds to the confusion.’

  Eynon sighed. ‘And then of course there’s me. If you are viewed with suspicion then I am far worse. A misfit, a weakling. I don’t think the townspeople have thought of the correct set of adjectives to apply to me.’

  ‘Then we must be friends,’ Joe said. He looked directly at Eynon. ‘As long as we are not rivals, that is.’

  ‘You mean for the affections of Miss Savage? Well, you know I’m very fond of Llinos, very fond and surely you can’t seriously see yourself as a suitor . . .’ He stopped speaking as Joe held up his hand.

  ‘Don’t say any more. We shall not quarrel.’

  After a moment, Eynon nodded. ‘Agreed. If you love her I’m sorry but I think I’m in love with her too.’

  ‘Then together we can do what is best for her.’

  After a moment’s silence, Eynon changed the subject. ‘The pottery is getting back on its feet, sales of the Indian designs are booming, I believe.’

  Joe rose without answering and moved to the brow of the hill. On his skin the breeze was soft and warm and tasted salt from the sea. Wales was a lovely place but one day, perhaps, he would take Llinos to the plains of Dakota where she could taste real freedom. He had left America as little more than a child but his roots were there and they drew him back.

  ‘You are far away.’ Eynon’s voice drifted into Joe’s consciousness and he ignored it. He wanted to stay within himself, inside his own thoughts, to quieten the restless spirits that plagued him when he did not spend time alone.

  ‘Sorry, old chap, I’m disturbing you,’ Eynon said. There was something in the tone of Eynon’s voice that touched Joe, a pain, a loneliness that could find no expression in words.

  He relaxed. ‘Not at all. Come along, let’s walk across the hills to the west of the town, away from the stink of the manufactories.’

  They fell into step, side by side, and Joe walked as he had done as a child, his feet connecting with the earth but lightly, drawing from beneath him the energy of hidden worlds and from the sky above him the fire of the spirits.

  It worried him sometimes that he was this dual personality. On one hand, a perfect English gentleman and on the other, a primitive. He glanced at Eynon, who was content to walk silently at his side.

  ‘So I seem strange to you, do I, old chap?’ He consciously mimicked Eynon’s own form of address.

  Eynon was too honest to prevaricate. ‘You do,’ he said and then felt compelled to enlarge on his rather bald statement. ‘You are strange in a fascinating way.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You have a quality of strength, of oneness with the whole universe, that lesser souls like me can only envy.’

  Joe nodded. ‘I look foreign?’

  ‘In a way. Your hair is blue-black and longer and straighter than is worn by most men. You do not look foreign so much as exotic and different and yet walking along the Welsh coastlands with you, I feel you are more part of the place than I am.’ Eynon sighed. ‘I am a sad case, I fear, Joe. My emotions are too close to the surface.’

  ‘No emotion is ever lost. It can be channelled into good use, one way or another.’

  ‘But my emotions are so mixed. I’ve quarrelled with my father and that worries me. But it’s no use, we just don’t get on at all. I’ve moved out, found a house of my own. I hope I’ve done the right thing.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. And it’s not so unusual for father and son not to see eye to eye. I don’t get on with my father either. Rather, he does not get on with me. He has spawned a heathen, a hybrid, so he tells me, and how can I disagree with what is true?’

  ‘And yet he took care of you?’ Eynon said.

  ‘He took care of me in the material sense, yes. In the spiritual and emotional sense, he repudiated me.’

  We have a lot in common then.’ Eynon sounded as if the thought brought him comfort.

  ‘I’m sure we have a great deal in common.’ Joe half smiled. ‘Look, there’s a coffee-house over there, on the corner. Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to?’ Eynon asked. ‘Being seen with me, I mean. I’m not popular, I’m thought of as odd, a man who likes to paint instead of indulge in commerce.’

  ‘Well, we are good company for each other, I should think.’ Joe led the way inside the gloomy interior of the coffee-house. The aromatic smell of ground beans filled the room and Joe sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Good,’ he said and took a seat near the mullioned windows. ‘The coffee here will be hot and strong, just as I like it.’

  Eynon sat opposite him, turning his back on the room. ‘I hope no-one makes a scene,’ he said.

  ‘Why should anyone make a scene?’ Joe spoke loudly and a few heads turned to look his way. Eynon glanced nervously over his shoulder.

  ‘They do, sometimes. I no longer frequent public bars for that reason. In drink, some men lose their senses and become abusive.’

  ‘But coffee does not have that effect, surely?’

  Eynon laughed mirthlessly. ‘It doesn’t take much to incense some men.’

  The coffee, as Joe had predicted, was hot and strong. ‘Too much of this will send the nerves hopping,’ Joe said, looking into his mug.

  ‘What a strange thing to say.’ Eynon leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘It’s a fact. This stuff is a stimulant, it sends the pulses racing.’ Joe smiled. ‘It has the same effect on me as being near Llinos does. Well almost.’

  Eynon reached in his pocket for his pipe. ‘Anything to say about tobacco, old chap?’

  ‘Breathe in any weed you want to,’ Joe said. ‘It’s none of my business. At home, my people smoke pipes too. It’s supposed to be a cere
monial act but I suspect that it’s one that brings pleasure.’

  The rise and fall of the voices in the room was soothing. Joe leaned back in his chair and though his eyes were open, he saw nothing of his surroundings. His thoughts were of Llinos, her hair, dark like the wing of a raven, her eyes deep and dark. When they rested on him, they were lit from within.

  He wanted her badly. Now, even thinking of her set his loins on fire but he had learned patience at an early age. He had learned too that waiting enhanced the prize when it was won.

  Joe became aware of a voice talking close to him. ‘The new slavey for the Morton-Edwards family, are you?’

  Joe focused his gaze on the man who stood behind Eynon’s chair, staring down at them, a sneer pulling down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Talking to me?’ Joe said easily.

  ‘Not talking to the wall, am I?’

  ‘You could be for all the sense you are making.’

  The colour rose to the man’s face. ‘Don’t be insolent to me, you half-breed.’

  ‘Come on, let’s leave.’ Eynon attempted to rise but the man held him down, his well-manicured hands pressing on Eynon’s shoulders.

  ‘Might I ask your name?’ Joe sounded so affable that the man blinked rapidly.

  ‘What do you want my name for?’

  ‘Afraid to give it? Are you one of these people who hide behind anonymity when you insult people?’

  ‘James Clarence at your service.’ The man half bowed which seemed a ludicrous gesture in the circumstances.

  ‘That’s all right then.’ Joe rose to his feet. He knew he was a tall, well-muscled man but he knew too that it was the set of his face that made James Clarence take an involuntary step backwards.

  ‘I just like to know who it is I am about to hit,’ Joe said easily.

  ‘No need for violence.’ The colour had receded from James Clarence’s face. ‘Can’t you take a bit of good-natured chaffing?’

  ‘Before I hit you, I will give you the opportunity to withdraw your ill-conceived remarks and apologize for inflicting your unwelcome presence on me and my friend here.’

  ‘Withdraw? Apologize?’

  ‘Good, you know the words. Do you understand them or should I explain?’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ The man was blustering.

  Joe leaned forward. ‘Come along, old man. For someone who claims to be so superior to others, you do not seem to have a very good command of language.’

  James Clarence admitted defeat. ‘If my words caused offence, I withdraw them and apologize.’ He bowed again, a mere inclining of his head, and moved away. Joe resumed his seat.

  ‘There are some ill-bred people in here, Eynon.’ Joe’s voice rang loudly in the now silent room. ‘I suggest we drink our coffee and seek out a more refined set of companions.’

  Once they were outside, Eynon sighed hugely. ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘Didn’t you make that obnoxious Clarence look foolish? I’ve never seen the man with his tail between his legs before.’

  ‘You must learn to take care of yourself,’ Joe said. ‘I will teach you some Indian tricks so that you can fight your battles. But very often, words are the best weapons. You have them, use them.’

  ‘We are not all strong like you, Joe,’ Eynon said.

  Joe tapped his head. ‘Strength begins up here.’ His hand moved to his heart. ‘Courage is here, in your heart.’ His hand rested briefly on his stomach. ‘Here is your powerhouse, your fire. Keep it burning, Eynon, or you will be swamped by life.’

  ‘I can see that you are going to change a great many things around here, Joe,’ Eynon said. ‘I will take you up on your offer to teach me to defend myself but for now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back home.’ He paused. ‘Give my love to Llinos. And, Joe, thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Just for being a good friend.’

  Joe watched Eynon as he walked away, hands thrust into his pockets, his shoulders slumped. There was a great sadness about him and if Joe’s instincts were correct, there would be a great deal more sadness to come Eynon’s way.

  He turned to follow the course of the river and his spirits lightened. Soon he would be with Llinos, he would drink in her beauty knowing that one day she would be his.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Llinos crossed the yard, stepping aside as a line of clay carriers moved past her. At the door of the potters’ shed she watched one of the women wedging the clay. The girl was a stranger to Llinos, newly taken on, but she seemed to know her business. She lifted a square of clay above her head and dashed it down onto the wooden slab in front of her. She repeated the process until the clay was completely free of air.

  ‘Morning,’ Llinos said. The girl turned. She was older than Llinos had first thought, her face was drawn and pale.

  ‘Mornin’, Miss Savage,’ the girl said. She continued with her work without pause and Llinos, knowing she was disturbing the girl’s rhythm, turned away.

  All around her was the hustle and bustle of a thriving pottery and Llinos viewed it with mixed feelings. Times had been hard when the pottery was short staffed but she had been busy, in charge with no time to think. Now, somehow, she felt redundant.

  She was glad her father had returned from the war, there was no question about that. She loved him dearly and she admired the stoic way he dealt with his disabilities. Sometimes, the wounds on his legs gave him pain, the skin breaking down into open sores. She had seen Joe make a paste from a mixture of boiled roots and herbs and coat the red raw flesh with the soothing balm. Some days, her father would be fit enough to oversee the work in the pottery, at times he would even take charge of the accounts, but much of the time he just sat silently lost in a world of his own.

  Joe was so good with him, so patient. When Lloyd needed him, he was there. She swallowed hard. Joe. She was in love with him. He had not encouraged her feelings or even acknowledged them but sometimes she caught him looking at her as if he was trying to see inside her head.

  He was a beautiful man, handsome, intelligent and different to anyone she had ever met. It was just a foolish dream, she knew that. Even if by some miracle Joe returned her love, it was an impossible match. One of which her father would never approve.

  She moved to the paint shop and breathed in the familiar smells of oil, paint and lead. A line of pots stood on the long table in preparation for decorating. The printer, a man in a long apron over greasy trousers, glanced up at her briefly and nodded. Almost without pause, he continued to lay his colour on a metal slab which he was heating on the stove.

  He reached for a pad of cloth and began to transfer the colour from the slab to the copper-plate engraving with the deftness of a practised printer. Llinos knew the process by heart, she had used it herself many times. She watched as the printer took a wet piece of tissue paper and laid it on the plate. He scraped away the excess paint with a blade and wiped it back onto the slab. He was clearly not a man to waste good paint.

  He took the copper plate, covered it with paper and passed it under a heavy roller covered with thick flannel. Llinos could not count the number of times she had watched in wonder as the pattern came out of the roller fixed to the paper.

  ‘Miss Savage, could you help me?’ The voice was subdued; one of the girls from the orphanage stared at Llinos, her eyes large in her pale face. She shifted awkwardly on the bench, holding a pattern up for inspection.

  ‘I think I’ve made a mistake with this scroll by here.’ She sounded near to tears. ‘Have I ruined it?’

  Before Llinos could speak, one of the older women came forward and snatched the pattern from the girl.

  ‘You stupid child! Can’t you get anything right? I’m going to have a fine job transferring this mess onto a pot, aren’t I?’

  ‘Let me see.’ Llinos might be young but in her good gown and hair in ringlets she was every inch the daughter of the owner and as such must be obeyed.

  ‘It will be all right. A scroll missing will not be noticed.’ Llinos
returned the pattern to the woman. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mrs Smedley. Good transferer, me, but I can’t work with that rubbish. This pattern won’t come out proper, like. It will be unbalanced, anyone can see that.’

  She stabbed angrily at the paper with a padded stump of cloth and the paper pattern was torn.

  ‘Look.’ Llinos was determined to keep her temper, though it was easy to see that Mrs Smedley was deliberately being difficult. She picked up the bowl the young girl had been decorating and placed the pattern onto the surface. ‘You must dab, like this, sharply but not fiercely and don’t rub, that’s what tears the paper.’

  Llinos demonstrated with expert hands and then handed the bowl to Mrs Smedley. The woman shot her a glance of sheer venom.

  ‘Thank you, miss, I see what I was doing wrong now.’ Her voice rang with sarcasm. ‘Here, Lily,’ she addressed the girl in sullen tones. ‘Take this pot to the barrel of water over there and get the paper washed off. Try to do something right, for a change.’

  Mrs Smedley looked directly at Llinos. ‘I hear we are having some more of those new heathen patterns to work with,’ she said in a deceptively mild tone of voice.

  ‘If you mean the American Indian designs you are quite right, they seem to have become quite popular.’ Llinos faced the woman eye to eye. She was suddenly aware of how tall she had grown in the past months. She was no longer a child, she was a woman with the longings and urges of a woman. Urges that were directed to the most unsuitable of men.

  ‘Don’t know what the folks of Swansea make of it all, eagles and strange cattle prancing over their pots. Not used to it, see?’

  ‘The fact is, the pots are selling.’ Llinos paused, attempting to moderate the sharpness of her tone. ‘At least we are providing something different.’ She added a note of caution.

  ‘If we are to compete with the bigger potteries across the country we will all have to pull together or we’ll all be out of work.’