Firebird (4 page)

She knew they loved one another. Knew that they were happy together. He took her hand and his hair was silky as it blew against her cheek. He stood at least six inches taller than she. He was young, yet she knew he was much wiser than many men twice his years.

When she woke in the morning, it was with reluctance. She tried to hold on to the warmth and the joy of her dreams. But it was no use. The sound of her mother's raised voice and Nora crashing pans in the kitchen shattered the stillness. Llinos rose from bed and stood for a moment in the chill of the morning, dreading going downstairs. Gwen Savage had been used to a houseful of servants waiting on her. She could not understand that those days were gone; the fortunes of the Savage family had dwindled to almost nothing. Llinos dressed quickly. She had another long hard day at the pottery before her.

It was a quiet ceremony, performed at the church of St John by an elderly vicar who clearly wanted nothing more than to sit down and ease the ache in his legs.

Llinos sat in the front pew and watched in silent misery as Mr Cimla placed the ring on her mother's finger. Gwen was radiant, her eyes soft as they looked up at her handsome new husband. And then it was over and in silence the couple walked up the aisle of the church towards the open door. There was no organ music, that would cost extra and Mr Cimla had decided that the money could be better spent.

Llinos followed the couple along the streets towards Pottery Row, her head bowed as she watched her mother's skirts sweep along the dust in the roadway. There should have been a carriage but Mr Cimla's meanness had won the day and Gwen had decided against it.

As the wedding party walked along Pottery Row the place suddenly became a hive of activity. Celia-end-house carried a bucket of steaming water to her door and got busy scrubbing the stone steps outside her house. Mrs Millie Cooper was cleaning her windows and some of the other women stood in a group talking. There was an air of expectancy about them that Llinos was quick to notice.

‘Good luck to you, Mr and Mrs Cimla.' Celia-end-house came towards them, her hands outstretched. ‘We had a whip-round and made a collection to wish you luck on your wedding.' She paused and Llinos, glancing at Mr Cimla, saw him bow charmingly to Celia, anticipating a fine gift.

‘With the money I collected, I've made you a home brew and some cake, something to cheer you on this special day.'

‘Thank you, Celia, it's much appreciated,' Gwen said and looked up at Mr Cimla. ‘Isn't it kind of our neighbours to think of us?'

He bowed stiffly but did not speak. He was obviously disappointed in the humble gifts. His hand rested on Gwen's elbow, urging her towards Pottery House.

Llinos followed reluctantly. She did not want to go indoors, did not want to sit and watch Mr Cimla coo over her mother. Perhaps after a reasonable time she could change into her working clothes and go to the pottery sheds.

‘Pour some of that grog, Gwenie.' Mr Cimla tugged at his stiff collar, unfastening it from his shirt and throwing it onto the mantelpiece.

‘Here, girl, take this upstairs and hang it carefully, I don't want it creased.' He handed Llinos his coat and sat down in the rocking chair before the fire.

‘Come on, Gwen, for heaven's sake, you are too slow to catch a cold.'

Llinos hurried upstairs and thrust the coat away from her with a feeling of repugnance. It smelled of him, of sweat and ale.

She looked at the bed which her mother would share with Mr Cimla and she felt suddenly ill. It was done, her mother was married, Mr Cimla was in their lives to stay.

She hurried across the landing into her own room and with shaking hands unfastened the buttons of her best dress. It was a pretty dress, high waisted, with long sleeves. Pale blue, sprigged with white flowers. The material was far too thin for a day as chilly as this one was but she had nothing else good enough to wear.

She shook out the creases and stood for a moment savouring the moment of stillness, knowing that from now on there would be little peace or privacy. Everything was changed. He would be there day and night, demanding the best food and plenty of attention.

Llinos pulled on her thick working dress. The warmth of the wool settled around her comfortingly. It had been left behind by one of the maids, unwanted, considered too worn to pack, but Llinos was glad of it.

She would have to go back downstairs but soon she would make her excuses and go to work. She would tell Mr Cimla that an order for a decorative jug and bowl had come in and it was needed urgently. She knew already that he would not go easy on her, that she would have to explain her every move to him.

In the sitting-room, her mother was perched on Mr Cimla's knee and his hand was inside her bodice. Llinos stopped abruptly in the open doorway.

‘Come on in, child.' Mr Cimla smiled. ‘Don't mind us. Your mother and me are a happily married couple, remember?'

Gwen made an effort to move away from him but he held her fast, his knuckles moving beneath the material of her bodice. ‘Let the child see, it's only natural after all. We are not doing anything wrong, are we, Gwen?'

‘No, but some things are best kept private, Mr Cimla.' Gwen's protest was weak and in response Mr Cimla drew her face down to his and kissed her long and hard. He looked up then and met her eyes and Llinos looked away in embarrassment.

‘Got work to do, child?' he said harshly, his hand pushing Gwen's skirts above her knee.

Llinos nodded.

‘Speak up then, what are you working on?'

‘A jug and basin, a good one, I can charge a fair price for it.'

‘
You
can charge a fair price?' His hand paused in its exploration of Gwen's thigh. ‘Haven't you got that wrong, little girl?' His voice carried an undisguised threat.

‘We, I mean,' Llinos said quickly.

He shook his head. ‘No, no, the word is “I” – me, Mr Cimla. I will decide on what charges I wish to make. Indeed, I shall be making all the decisions from now on.'

He returned his attention to Gwen, who was flushed, her brow furrowed, an uncertain look on her face.

‘Now get out, child,' Mr Cimla said. ‘I have business with your mother.'

Llinos hurried from the room, her eyes suddenly moist. She had to face facts, her mother was married to a crass, stupid monster and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

‘Hey, Llinos, what's this, then, tears, is it?' Ben was standing beside one of the kilns, his pipe jutting from his mouth. He looked at her shrewdly.

‘You're troubled, is that it, Llinos? Worried what sort of stepfather that man will make. I don't blame you, either, he's no gentleman.'

Llinos leaned against the old man and buried her face against the rough cloth of his coat. ‘Ben, I can't stand Mr Cimla, I don't know how I'm going to live in the same house as him.'

‘Aye, some people make your flesh creep and he's one of them.'

Llinos looked up at him and drew away, suddenly aware that she was a Savage and should keep her dignity at all costs. It was all she had left, her dignity.

‘Don't let him hear you say that, Ben. He's got rid of Binnie as it is, I couldn't stand it if you went too.'

‘I won't go, don't you worry, I'm part of the furniture around here. I've been working at the pottery since it was opened and no-one, not even that slimy creature, will make me leave.'

He smiled down at her. ‘Are you hungry? I've got a nice bit of cold pie and a jug of milk in the outhouse. I was just going to have my tea, would you like to join me, Miss Savage?'

Ben made a mock bow and Llinos smiled. Ben might be an employee but he had been like a father to her since her own father had gone abroad.

It was warm in the shed with a shaft of pale sunlight illuminating the unglazed pots on the shelves.

‘Llinos, you are going to need some help, the place is undermanned as it is and now with Binnie sacked it's going to be impossible to get enough stock to make a profit.'

Ben handed her a cup of milk. ‘Pity your father ever went to fight in the war.' Ben poured some milk into another cup. ‘Had to be him that got killed, didn't it? But then the Lord only takes the good ones.'

‘I can't believe my father is dead, Ben, can you?' Llinos drank some of the milk; it was cool and creamy and fresh from the cow. So fresh that bits of grass still floated in it.

Ben refilled his pipe. ‘That's the way of wars, girlie.' He sighed. ‘A handsome man was Mr Savage, you follow him for looks.' He smiled. ‘The same dark hair, the brown eyes, oh yes, you are your father's daughter, no doubt about it.'

‘When I was a child he used to hold me on his knee and tell me stories before I went to bed. As I grew older, he talked to me about the china. He loved the pottery, Ben, why did he go away?'

‘He felt it his duty, I 'spects. But you're right, when your daddy was home we had good times, right enough.'

‘And now the good times are all gone,' Llinos said. Once there had been light and laughter in Pottery House. There had been servants to do the cooking, to take care of the chores. Being waited on hand and foot was no less than Llinos expected, she had taken it all for granted, unaware that she had been born to privilege. Well, she had no privileges now.

‘Your father' – Ben sucked on the stem of his pipe – ‘he was the sort of man who believed in justice. He believed he should help get rid of that Bonaparte once and for all.'

‘But we are not going to be attacked by a French army, are we, Ben?'

‘The war needs to be fought, girlie, there's not much sea between France and England and it's easily crossed. Seems the French had plans to do just that. Gathered at Boulogne, they did, and it took Nelson to put them off the idea. Just can't trust them foreigners. You wouldn't like to wake up one morning and find a French man at your door, would you?'

‘So my father was killed protecting us from something that the French might or might not do?'

‘Sounds daft put like that but then war
is
daft.' Ben began to puff on his pipe, sending up spirals of smoke that mingled with the motes of dust drifting across the window.

‘Hit her hard, your dad's death did, mind.' He jerked his head towards the house. ‘Mrs Savage cried for days when she heard the news. No consoling her. Like a poor ghost she was for a long time. I expect she's always been looking for love since, just like the rest of us but I doubt she'll find it with this Cimla.'

He sighed. ‘I'd better see to the fires, can't let them die down or the pots will be spoiled. Better give the boys some food, too.' He paused, a sad smile on his lined face. ‘Look, Llinos, don't let life get you down. You'll win through, you got the right spirit.'

When he had gone, Llinos looked round at the crowded shelves, wondering what she could do to pass the hours until bedtime. She did not feel like working, she did not want to mix up fresh glaze or paint a pattern into the fresh clay. She was tired and dispirited. She wanted to curl up and fall asleep and never wake again until Mr Cimla had gone from her life. But he would never be gone, he was there for ever.

She walked across the yard to one of the sheds and lit a candle. She sat on her seat before the wheel and stared down at the dried bits of clay and began to pick at them with her fingernail.

On an impulse, she pulled a chunk of clay from under a damp sack and began to pound it on the table. She kneaded with her fists, expelling the air from it with such venom that it might well have been Mr Cimla's head she was pounding.

She threw it onto the wheel and her feet worked swiftly, spinning the wheel around. She turned the ball of clay, dampening it from the basin of water at her side, revelling in the feel of the wet clay beneath her fingers. She worked surely, shaping the clay, developing a curved pot on the wheel before her. She dug in her nail and a groove formed at the neck of the pot.

The candlelight flickered above her head and Llinos tried not to think of the future. How could the pottery survive? Gradually, the workers had left, sales had dropped, profit was a thing of the past.

She cut the pot from the base and began another. She had to work, to keep her hands occupied, or she would go mad. It was only when she became aware of the ache in her back and arms that she realized she had been at the wheel for several hours.

The candle was only a stump, the flame wavering in one last glow before it died. The clay beneath her hands wobbled into a flat nothing on the wheel. Llinos rested her head on her forearms; her fingers were numb, she could not feel her feet.

At last, she climbed down from the stool. She could not delay any longer, she must go back into the house. She looked up at the brightness of the sky; the stars appeared low, almost touching the horizon. It was a crisp, clear night and it was cold.

Slowly, she let herself into the house. It was silent and dark, her mother had not waited up for her. But then she probably had no choice in the matter, not now that she had Mr Cimla to consider.

Llinos washed and undressed as quickly as she could and climbed gratefully into the bed. She pulled the blankets over her shoulders and tucked them under her neck.

From the next bedroom, she heard the creak of springs. She heard her mother's voice low, pleading. She heard what sounded like a slap and then there was nothing but the rhythm of the springs and the sighing of the wind in the tree outside her window.

CHAPTER THREE

Market day was a busy one for the inhabitants of the row. It was the day when most of the housewives did their shopping for fish and vegetables and meat. It was a day when Mr Cimla in his wisdom had suggested Llinos, accompanied by Watt, should drive into town with a cart full of china and sell it in the market place.