Firebird (10 page)

The swiftness of it all left Llinos no time to grieve. She felt numb, as though her senses had become blunted. She had not combed her hair in days and the food Celia forced on her from time to time tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

‘What I want to know is what we're going to do about buying our pots now.' Mrs Millie Fishguard was frowning. ‘Broke my big basin only last night, I did, got nothing to mix up my bread in, poor show, mind.'

‘Don't be so selfish, Millie.' Celia's voice was reproving. ‘There's more important things to sort out now besides your pots.'

Llinos felt a surge of sudden impatience. How dare these women come into her house and talk as if she was incapable of thinking for herself?

‘I will be all right, I assure you.' Llinos heard the strength in her voice and it gave her confidence. ‘I can work the clay, I've been doing it since I was seven years old.'

Celia nodded. ‘That's true enough, lovie,' she said, ‘but what about the cooking and cleaning? You can't do everything.' In spite of her questions, she looked at Llinos with a new respect. ‘And what will you do if Mr Cimla should put in an appearance again?'

‘I will deal with Mr Cimla with a loaded musket if need be,' Llinos said. ‘As for everything else, I'll manage.'

‘Well, what if I oversee things in by here, then. Keep an eye on you, watch you don't come to no harm.' Celia smiled. ‘A lady like you needs a chaperone, mind, and with old Nora gone to stay with her sister, you're all alone with apprentices and workmen about the place and that's not proper.'

‘That's right enough, Miss Savage,' Mrs Cooper said respectfully. ‘I'll be glad if you can keep the pottery going, so will my Jim. I know he's only a casual up here but he's a good worker and strong.'

‘Jim has been a great help in the past few days. If it's at all possible, I intend to keep him on.'

She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles in an unconsciously childish gesture. ‘All right,' she said. ‘I'll be glad of your help, Celia, at least for the time being.'

‘That's settled then,' Celia said and sipped her port with a satisfied look in her eye. It seemed the matter was decided and Llinos took a deep breath; it was time she took control of her life, she had wallowed in self-pity for long enough. If she did not assert herself now, her life would not be her own.

‘If you will excuse me, ladies,' she said firmly, ‘I have work to do. Finish your port before you leave.'

Llinos left the room and made her way across the yard. It was quiet, no-one worked on Sunday, except old Ben who would, sometimes, stay behind to fire the kilns.

She looked around at the sprawled, empty buildings. This was her heritage and she would fight for survival in the business that her father had founded. Binnie had been one of the first apprentices to be taken on at the Savage Pottery and now he was in charge of it he seemed to have become strong and happy. Yet even though Binnie worked long hours at the pottery, he insisted on travelling home to Greenhill after work every night. And when he left, she felt lonely and lost.

She realized that the yard was deserted. There was no sign of Ben, he was probably down at the alehouse near the Strand. The old man was not a heavy drinker but he seemed to enjoy the manly talk that he found only in the public bar of the Potters Wheel.

Llinos pushed open the door of the outhouse where the apprentices slept. It was empty except for Watt, who was lying asleep in the window seat. Llinos smiled and covered his slight form with a blanket. Tomorrow she would move the boy into the house, he would be company for her. She felt a surge of warmth, at least perhaps she could make life better for Watt and the other workers even if her own life seemed to be falling apart.

She retraced her steps towards the house. The rooms were silent, everyone had left, even Celia-end-house had gone. Llinos picked up some discarded knitting, the small garment on which her mother had been working, and hot tears burnt her eyes. The silence spread round her and grew and she felt frightened and alone.

That night as she lay in bed, staring out through the small window at the stars, she wondered if she would ever come to terms with her loneliness. Would she ever be happy again? And then it was as though a rush of air was sweeping over her. A voice seemed to speak inside her head telling her she would not be alone for ever. One day, she would find happiness and peace.

She held up her hand to the darkness. ‘Joe?' she said, but all she heard was the sighing of the wind in the trees.

When she woke, she felt rested. She could hear Celia moving about in the kitchen, heard the rattle of china and she was glad of the sounds, they brought a touch of normality to her life. Today, she would wash her hair, cut away the untidy ends. She would smarten herself up, find some good clothes to wear. She was Llinos Savage and it was about time she remembered it.

She turned and faced the wall where early sunlight formed moving patterns and considered her future. She was a good potter. She had mastered the wheel when her legs had been too short to reach the disk that turned it. But running a pottery involved more than a potter's skill. How long would the stock of clay last, lying now under damp sacks in the pottery? When it all was used, where would she order more?

She knew her mother kept accounts, she had seen her sitting in the candlelight studying the books in which she sometimes wrote industriously for hours on end. Perhaps in the pages of neat handwriting Llinos would find the information she needed to carry on.

She would require more hands, too. She had taken on Jim Cooper to help with the heavy work and Binnie was a good foreman. The apprentices were becoming more experienced and worked hard stacking pots in the saggars and carrying them to the kiln. Ben kept the kiln fuelled. They were good men, good workers all of them, but what she really needed was more potters, more painters and more labourers.

She sat up and hunched up her knees under the bedclothes thinking how much the pottery had gone downhill in the last few years. It was a wonder that it had kept going at all. If she was to make a success of things, she needed to get back into full production again. But where was she going to get the money to pay for it all?

First thing after breakfast, she would begin by studying the books. She would learn the business as best she could, she would borrow money if she had to, she would do anything to save the pottery.

What wares made the most money, what goods should she concentrate on? Millie Fishguard promised to pay her handsomely for the mixing bowl and had ordered a jug as well, but large objects took time to bake. Several glazes were needed to cover the surface, making it an expensive process. Perhaps she should concentrate on smaller wares, sugar boxes, milk jugs, that sort of thing.

Tomorrow was market day and Llinos felt she should make the effort to take some of the stock to town. If Binnie and Watt came along, she could leave them to sell the crocks while she saw Mr Francis at the bank and asked him for his help and advice. He had been a good friend of her father's; surely he would not let her down now?

Celia had the fire blazing in the kitchen, the kettle was singing over the flames and the smell of toasted bread permeated the room. She came in from the back yard, a pile of sticks in her arms.

‘Oh, aye, awake at last, sleepyhead? Well, get some food inside your belly, too thin by far, you are, my girl.'

Celia took liberties, she was too familiar, but then times had changed. Llinos was no longer the daughter of a rich potter but an orphan who needed to work or starve. She sat at the table opposite Celia, who was rubbing her swollen knees. ‘Just been out to give the boys and old Benjamin some gruel and a cup of hot milk. Good man, Ben, got the kiln so hot you'd think it would take the skin off you.'

Llinos rubbed at her eyes. ‘Market day, today,' she said, the words feeling thick in her mouth. She was frightened, not knowing if she could support herself let alone support dozens of workers.

‘Aye, it's market day right enough. Shall I come down to town with you?' Celia was settled back in her chair, her skirts lifted now, the flames of the fire playing on her knees.

Llinos shook her head. ‘I'll be taking Binnie and Watt. Thanks all the same.' Celia would not make it to the end of Pottery Row let alone to town. Fine medicine woman she was, she could not even heal herself, she was plagued by the bone ache.

Llinos ate her breakfast with little appetite. ‘I was thinking,' she said, ‘perhaps I could get some girls in to help me with the light work, the decorating and glazing.'

Celia's mouth twisted downwards. ‘And where would you find the money to pay them?'

‘I was thinking of someone from the workhouse.'

Slowly, Celia nodded. ‘Aye, that might be an idea, jest for bed and board you'd get yourself some help all right.'

‘How do I go about it?'

‘Well how do you think? Go on up there. Tell the guardian that you got work for some of the brats. Glad to get rid of 'em, they'll be, less mouths to feed, see?' Celia snorted. ‘Course, they'll keep the names on the books, make a bit on the side, like, but that's not your worry.'

Llinos was not sure she had the courage to approach anyone in the workhouse. It was a gaunt, sprawling building surrounded by a high wall.

‘I thought you was going to market.' Celia hacked at the loaf and stuck the blackened prongs of the toasting fork into the bread.

Llinos gave up any attempt to eat and pushed her chair away from the table. ‘I'd better see if the boys have got the horse and cart ready.'

It was a soft day, the wind had dropped and late tea roses splashed the hedgerow with brave flags of colour.

‘Shall I come with you, Miss Savage?' Jim Cooper asked. ‘Those pots take some lifting, mind.'

Llinos shook her head. ‘I'll take Watt and I thought Binnie could come, too.'

‘He ain't come in, miss, don' know why. But I'm willing and strong, I'll be a right good help,' Jim said and Llinos bit back a sharp retort. The men must stop treating her as a lady, they must begin to think of her as a boss.

‘No,' she said firmly, ‘I want you to stay here, Jim, look after the place and if Bert Cimla shows his face, take a pickaxe to him.'

Llinos climbed into the driving seat and helped Watt up beside her. The horse shifted uneasily between the shafts. The weight of the pots was unstable and the load moved a little towards the back. She wondered where Binnie was, it was not like him to miss a shift. Well, she had other things to think of at the moment.

‘Take your time, miss,' Jim said doubtfully. ‘I don't like the thought of you driving to town with only Watt for company. Are you sure you can manage?'

‘You are needed here.' Llinos clucked her tongue and the horse moved forward abruptly, jolting the cart so that the pots rocked from side to side.

Llinos looked at Watt. ‘Hold on tight now, it looks as if this is going to be a bumpy journey.' After a few miles she realized how prophetic her words had been; the jolting of the cart against the uneven surface of the road jarred her bones and her head began to ache. Already one of the taller jugs had keeled over and the handle had broken off.

The road led along the river bank towards the town and the market place. The animal was restless, knowing there was a bag of oats at the end of the journey. Llinos pulled on the reins. ‘Whoa there.' She leaned backwards in an effort to slow the cart, the shafts creaked with the strain and Watt, sitting beside Llinos, was clinging on for dear life. The load shifted again and, startled, the horse reared, hooves pawing the air.

She saw a rider from the corner of her eye. He came alongside and caught the reins of her horse, talking soothingly to the animal.

Llinos was breathing hard, her hair swung loose, her eyes were misted with tears of frustration. She was a failure, she was sure that half the stock was broken, the hard labour of the past week wasted.

She climbed shakily from the cart, pushing her hair away from her hot face. She could hardly breathe, her heart was thumping as though it was going to jump out of her chest.

‘Thank you,' she managed to gasp. She looked up and saw the pale face of Eynon Morton-Edwards looking down at her in concern.

‘You all right?'

She nodded. ‘Yes, I'm perfectly all right.' She somehow felt resentful of him, whenever he was around there was trouble. She knew it was unfair of her to blame him but nonetheless she turned away from him and began to examine her stock.

‘Not too much damage done,' he said and there seemed to be a wistfulness about his voice that was touching. She turned to face him. His head was inches from her own. He was very fair, his eyebrows and lashes almost invisible. There was something soft about him, a vulnerability that he seemed unable to hide.

He smiled at her and she felt churlish. ‘It was good of you to help, thank you so much, but I can manage now.'

‘You call it managing, letting a pile of crocks run away with you? Look, the load of pottery is insecure. Let me ride with you, I'm going to town anyway.'

She hesitated.

‘I'm no threat,' he said, ‘I only want to be a good neighbour. I heard of your sad loss and I would like to offer my condolences.'

She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘That's very kind of you. But please don't trouble yourself, I will be just fine.'

She knew she was being childish but somehow the sight of Eynon Morton-Edwards, son of her father's rival, offering her sympathy was too much to bear. His pottery was not suffering. His father had not gone to the war and left his wife and child at home alone.

‘Look,' he said, ‘it's none of my business but if you are going to the market' – he gestured towards the pots – ‘which unless you are taking these things for a walk I suppose you are, don't you think you should do something about that hair?'