Where Love Shines (23 page)

“Yes. But this is only the third room I’ve seen.”

“If you haven’t been to the kilns yet, I would be happy to take you.”

“Thank you.” She hated the formality between them, but anything was preferable to silence. She took his arm.

Richard talked as they walked back through the building, down the outer stairs, and across the brick courtyard. “After the pottery is formed, it is allowed to dry. Then it is given a biscuit firing, which hardens the clay. The piece is then dipped in glaze and given a glost firing, which fuses the glaze with the body. After the decoration has been added, there is a final enamel firing, but that is done in a smaller kiln behind the yard.”

They were now standing before one of the huge bottle-shaped brick structures that had captured her attention earlier. Richard was still being the perfect guide-host. “This outer bottle-shaped part is the hovel. It protects the inner kiln and creates a draft of air.”

The door of the inner oven stood open, and Jennifer could see that it was half filled with wheel-shaped saggars full of pottery. The fireman stood on the top of a ladder, piling the cases to the height of three men. When the kiln was full to the door, he would brick up the door and begin the firing.

Jenny was fascinated. She had eaten on fine china all her life without giving a second thought to where it came from. Again she looked at the steady stream of children carrying their burdens to the kiln. Then her host led her to another huge kiln where the firing was in process, radiating heat across the yard. Here the children were carrying, not the saggars of pottery, but scuttles of coal. Most of the urchins were as black as their burdens.

An equally blackened fireman tended the fire mouths at the base of the kiln. “It takes three days to raise the temperature sufficiently to bake the clay and then allow it to cool down again. Once the process starts, the fireman can’t leave. Early in the morning you’ll see him cooking his breakfast bacon on his shovel.”

Just then a barefoot boy ran across the yard and handed a packet of sandwiches to the fireman. “Thank ’e, Tag. I’ll just stoke this one more mouth, an’ then us’ll have our meal.”

Richard nodded toward the fireman’s voice. “Is that you, Thomas? I see your family is keeping you fed.”

“Oh, aye, they’re a right fine lot, they are. The missus is formin’ flowers, and two o’ the young‘uns carry saggars. Tag ’ere I’m trainin’ to be a fireman. Even sleeps ’ere with ’is old da’ when we’re firin’. Don’t ye, lad?”

Tag nodded his mop of streaky brown hair. “Tha’s right. Warmer ’ere than tis at ’ome.”

Dick and Jenny turned away. “It’s fascinating, Richard. But the poor children.”

“I know. So many grow up deformed from the weights they carry, and none receives an education. Come. Let me show you where they live.”

A soft rain began to fall from the now-gray sky. Richard seemed to have little trouble making his way along the busy courtyard filled with people and carts and around buildings, which he pointed out as warehouses and workshops. They went out the wall behind the potbank.

Richard came to a halt before a double row of buildings that seemed to Jenny to be as bad as anything she’d seen in a London slum. Only here the narrow passage twisting between the terraces was mud rather than cobbles. The stench from the toilet at the bottom of the street mingled with the stink of pigs from the sty built against the wall of the building. Children tumbled with muddy animals in the confining alleyway, and laundry, streaked black with coal smoke, hung overhead between the buildings.

“I will leave it to your imagination what it’s like inside the rooms,” Dick said. “But perhaps I should point out that they sleep with their animals for warmth and that the damp carries the smell from the pigpen through the walls.” He turned back toward the factory.

“And you have designed a model village to replace this,” Jenny prompted.

“It’s not my design; it is Thomas Minton’s. He built one for the workers at his factory in Stoke-on-Trent. Rows of brick terraces, each house two up and two down, so the adults can sleep apart from the children. Every house has its own fireplace. And I would put a toilet in each house. Greyston is one of the leading manufacturers of sanitaryware, yet few of the very people who make them have ever used such a convenience.”

“It’s a wonderful plan, Dick!” In her eagerness she reverted to less formal address. “You mustn’t give up. Surely your father will see the right of it.”

Richard shook his head. “I must get you back to Auntie GAL. I just realized no one knows where you are.”

They found the aunts in the manager’s office just beyond the laboratory where metals and minerals were mixed to make a wide range of brilliant colors. It was obvious that Great-aunt Lavinia had been grilling the manager about every phase of the operation. “Yes, ma’am. We hold iron-clad to the original formula: six parts bone ash, four parts china stone, and three and a half parts china clay. It was good enough for your great-grandpa and mine, and it’ll be good enough for our great-grandchildren, God grant them to us.”

Lavinia thumped the brick floor with her stick. “See that you hold to it, Trenton. Too much letting down of standards these days. I won’t have it. Not at Greyston.” She turned to Jenny. “There you are, my gel. What do you mean, gallivanting off without a by-your-leave?”

“I do apologize, Miss Greyston. But Richard has been telling me about his ideas for the model village. They’re wonderful. And I’ve seen how the workers are living now. The children—” Jenny rushed ahead until she was cut off by sharp raps of Aunt Lavinia’s walking stick.

“What nonsense have you been filling her head with, Richard? It seems you’re very free with other people’s money. How would you propose to finance such a scheme, sir? From my pocket, I suppose?”

“Not at all, Aunt Lavinia. I have it all worked out. First, the buildings would be put up by small contractors on speculation, as they have done elsewhere. The workers would be encouraged to join a building club, which the pottery would form for them—I expect that would be your department, Trenton.”

The manager snorted. “With respect, sir, they couldn’t contribute more than a few pennies a quarter.”

Dick nodded. “I realize that, especially those with irregular employment. But it’s important that they contribute what they can so they’ll feel the project is theirs. The major funding will come from increased profits of the pottery.”

Lavinia scoffed. “And how do you propose we achieve that? I most distinctly heard you arguing for giving the workers shorter hours.”

“I’ve studied Wedgewood’s system. He’s achieved great success with economy of labor by having his workers specialize. Instead of each worker making a pot from start to finish, one group does all the clay mixing, another all the forming, another specializes in glazing, another decoration—you see?” Dick spoke fast, his voice taking on a ring of assurance. “It’ll take some retraining and reorganizing the factory, but I believe it can be done. I figure that in the output of ceramic tiles alone—”

“With respect, sir,” Trenton cut in, his voice not sounding respectful at all, “the workers won’t like it. You’ll destroy their skill.”

“No, that’s just it. The plan doesn’t destroy skill at all. It simply limits the workers’ skill to a particular task so they can increase their proficiency by continued repetition.”

“Aye, there’s just the problem. You’ll have inattention. No one can do the same job fourteen hours a day.” The manager shook his head.

“But they won’t need to. Wedgewood has found his specialized workers can achieve as much in ten hours of attentive labor, even eight hours—”

“Eight hours!” Lavinia’s voice rose as if Richard had proposed an indecent act in the drawing room. “And what will they do with their spare time? They’ll drink. You’ll just be contributing to the immorality of the working class.”

“No.” Jenny could no longer restrain herself. “You can start schools. Teach them to read the Bible. In London even adults come to the ragged schools.”

“Wedgewood has developed a system of supervisors and managers to improve efficiency and quality. We could—”

“Wedgewood is a much larger and wealthier establishment than Greyston. As is Minton. Wedgewood has his Jasperware, and Minton his Willow pattern. Our Royal Legend is a fine piece of artistry, but it has not built us a fortune the size of those you would compare us to.”

“Yes, Aunt Lavinia, we are a smaller factory—therefore, we should be easier to reform and reorganize.”

Lavinia looked her great nephew up and down sharply before replying. “You don’t give up, do you, young man?”

Dick sketched, a bow. “Forgive me if I have overstepped myself, Auntie GAL.”

Lavinia sniffed, but Jenny thought she saw a twinkle in the ancient eyes. “We shall see about that. I have one more matter to discuss with Trenton.” She dismissed Dick and Jenny with a wave of her hand and then stopped them again. “Richard, you may continue Miss Neville’s instruction at your leisure. We shall not wait for her.”

Richard bowed slightly to his aunt, then turned to Jennifer. “Would you care to view the workings of the sliphouse, Miss Neville?” He offered his arm to Jenny, and once again they crossed the courtyard. Even before they entered the workshop, the noise of the great steam engine thundered at them. Inside, the room vibrated. Over the roar Dick pointed out the essentials of the process. “The raw materials are shoveled into that wooden bin we call a blunger. They are blunged with water for about a day to produce a creamy clay.” He explained how the mixing continued and impurities were removed, but Jennifer was too chilled to follow the process closely.

She shivered and pulled her thick quilting-lined, woollen mantle close around her shoulders. At the same time she looked at the women passing magnets over the liquid clay to remove particles of iron. They were wearing thin, ragged cotton dresses and working with their hands in cold, wet clay. And she thought of Florence Nightingale confronted with freezing soldiers in the Crimea.

Jenny felt she could no more remain snuggled in her own cape and do nothing for those shivering around her than Florence Nightingale had been able to ignore the frostbitten soldiers. She tugged at Richard’s arm and all but pulled him out of the sliphouse where they could talk away from the noise. “Richard, I have a little money of my own—not enough for any sort of reform, but…” She faltered. Would he think her pushy, interfering in his business? Would he resent her even further than he already seemed to do? A gust of cold wind blew down the courtyard, almost rocking some of the saggar-laden children off their feet.

She had to go on, whatever Richard thought. “Dick, I’d like to buy warm cloaks for the women and children and shirts for the men.” Her companion was silent. “If you wouldn’t mind, that is,” she added almost as a plea.

Richard’s mouth twisted as it had when he was confronted with her arrival. Then he gave a curt nod. “That is most kind of you. As you see, the need is great.”

“Yes. Could we do it now? Do you know where we could go?”

“The Northern Store in Newcastle, I should think. They’re the largest dry goods mercantile. If you’ll be so good as to wait here, I’ll just step across the way and tell Kirkham to bring the Victoria.” He turned so quickly he almost bumped into a child carrying a hod of clay.

Jenny bit her lip. She knew how he hated bumping into things. Her day had been such a failure, and it seemed that the harder she tried, the worse it got. She had failed to find out what was bothering Livvy. She had made matters worse between Richard and his great-aunt Lavinia with her interfering. And everything she did seemed to increase the distance between herself and Richard. Her only hope was that at least she might accomplish something for the workers.

Kirkham put up the calash top of the carriage and climbed onto the driver’s seat in front. Richard sat beside her in silence as the fine pair of matched bays trotted smartly toward Newcastle. Jenny made another attempt. “Richard, I know you’re discouraged, but you mustn’t give up. Your plans for the village and the pottery are excellent.”

“Yes, they are. I thought I had really found my calling—something I could do. But it appears that I was wrong. Again.”

“No, you aren’t wrong. There must be a way.” Then she had a new idea. “Perhaps Arthur would know of something! You traveled north together, didn’t you? Did you discuss your plans with him?”

“No. It was he who discussed his plans with me.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. Arthur knows so much of reform and has so many excellent undertakings. We must see what he can do.”

But again Jennifer’s attempt to be helpful had failed. The silence in the carriage was heavier than before.

The wheels of the Victoria clattered over the cobbles of Newcastle’s High Street, and Richard pointed out some of the landmarks. “That’s Kendrick’s Store. Auntie GAL won’t have her provisions from any other grocer. And there’s City Hall.” The traffic became more congested with carts and wagons of every description, and people crowded the pavement along the street.

“What is it? Is this market day?” Jenny leaned forward to see better.

“The Stones,” Dick replied. “Open air market every day. Some have stalls. “He waved toward the ones they were now passing. “Most just sell right from their carts.”

“Oh, markets are such fun. Let’s look here. Might there be shawls and mantles for sale?”

Richard shrugged. “I expect they have about everything.”

Kirkham stopped to let them off and then went to find a place to park the carriage away from the tangle of market traffic. Under the guise of seeking warmth, Jennifer held tightly to Richard’s arm. She wanted to protect him from any more awkward accidents this day. Whatever the barrier between her and Dick, it was high enough already.

She was soon captivated by the atmosphere of the market as sellers everywhere called their wares, housewives haggled loudly over prices, and children and dogs chased in and out among the stalls and shoppers. A cart piled high with hand-loomed rugs attracted Jenny with their bright colors and patterns, as did the next stall of fine embroidered table linens. Several wagons offered eggs and cheese; jams and preserves; swedes, turnips, and carrots.