The Tower Room, page 15
‘Sketch or draw or paint anything that comes without previous planning,’ he said, distributing plentiful sheets of cartridge paper. ‘Don’t limit yourselves to ceramic design. Draw whatever you want to, spontaneously. Be adventurous. Let yourselves go … ’
He didn’t add that the results would tell him a lot about all of them, or that he would not be surprised if they automatically followed the channels he had been leading them along, or that he fully expected the results to yield some good designs involving the necessary combinations for repetitive reproduction on fine china or porcelain — or that in one way he would be gratified if they did because it would confirm that he was teaching them well. He merely left them to it, then gathered up their papers. His first glance proved that his expectations were justified, except in the case of Sarah Willcox.
To his gratification she had produced no less than six, all like lightning, all uninhibited, and all like nothing she had done before. There was not only spontaneity and life and movement in them, but depth and substance which belonged to another branch of ceramic art.
He took them back to his lodgings and sat before the fire and studied them. There were indications of animal and human forms waiting to emerge from shadow into reality. Excitement surged. My God, I'm right about her … she's in the wrong field. She shouldn't be painting on porcelain, she should be modelling with it, creating ceramic sculptures … dancing limbs … leaping forms … vitality and life and movement and beauty. It's in the soul of her, repressed, hidden, craving escape.
But what could he do about it? A teacher had to stick to a curriculum, especially when a pupil’s employer had paid for the pupil to qualify in a specific field. Independent fee-paying students like Annabel Peterson could decide to study another subject if they wished, but master potters who sent apprentices to learn a particular aspect of their craft did so with the intention of employing them in that sphere and no other.
And it would be useless to appeal to the school’s principal, who would point out that Frenshaw had not sent the girl to study ceramic sculpture because his potbank didn’t produce such a line. ‘For over a century Frenshaws have been noted for their high quality domestic ware. They supply the finest dinner services to the finest houses in the country as well as abroad, also magnificent ornamental vases, but never have they produced figurines and ceramic sculptures. With established and well-proved selling lines no successful pottery lord wastes time on unpredictable new ones. Forget it, Bellingham.’
But he couldn’t. He spent more and more time studying those expressive drawings of Sarah’s, mesmerised and challenged by their quality until he began to feel that he was challenged by the girl herself.
That spurred him on. He realised he had to do something about it, but not until Christmas was almost upon him did he know what it was and decide to act.
Ten
The roar of an engine shattered the Sunday morning peace of Dunmore Park. It zoomed through the vast wrought-iron gates in total disregard for the early hour and the fact that people might be having a welcome lie-in after their week’s labours. Others who, like the master and mistress of the abbey, traditionally attended Holy Communion in the parish church returned just in time to see a shabby two-seater racing to the opposite side of the lake. It pulled to a halt outside the blacksmith’s cottage with a screech of brakes and a howl of agony from an engine which had plainly known better days.
‘And who’s the maniac driving that thing?’ Cynthia commented as the rider flung his legs over the low-slung door. ‘Don’t tell me the Willcox girl has an admirer!’
As the Frenshaws’ Daimler glided on toward the abbey she strained for a closer view. The young man appeared to be dragging a parcel of some sort from the side seat — heavy, from the effort it seemed to require. Not that she was really interested. Getting home after the tedium of a religious service held at what she considered an ungodly hour and attended, as far as she was concerned, merely because her social position demanded it, was of greater appeal.
Daniel said, ‘Why not? She’s growing up. She’ll soon be starting her second year’s art training.’
‘Art? I thought she was learning to paint on porcelain.’
‘And what is that but ceramic art?’
He said it tolerantly, but she sensed that half his mind was elsewhere. She even thought she detected a sidelong glance toward the blacksmith’s cottage, but then he looked straight ahead again. Somehow she felt he knew the identity of the motorist and was withholding it. So he’s in one of his inscrutable moods, she thought, and shrugged it off.
*
‘This is for you,’ said Clive Bellingham when Sarah opened the door. He indicated a large oilskin-wrapped parcel on the doorstep. ‘Another to fetch,’ he added over his shoulder as he headed back to the second-hand car he had bought in Stoke the day before.
Surprised and puzzled, Sarah stooped and prodded the parcel, convinced it couldn’t contain what it appeared to contain, but only at the potbank had she seen packs like this. She was still examining it when Clive dumped the next.
‘That’s the lot,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Where can I put them? A shed perhaps?’
He was already across the doorstep, hoisting a pack shoulder high, when Kate called from an inner room, ‘Who be visitin’ at this Sabbath hour?’
But Sarah was too surprised to heed her. She was stammering, ‘N-no, we haven’t a shed — only an outside wash-house — and what’s all this?’
‘Now, what does it look like? You’ve seen clay packs all your life, haven’t you?’ Clive broke into laughter when Sarah called, ‘It’s my tutor, Gran! My tutor! But what he’s come for goodness knows.’
‘What does it look as if I’ve come for? Get the sleep out of your eyes, Sarah. Why should I deliver a load of clay except for a purpose? You’ve got to use it, girl. Make something out of it. Model with it. And soon.’ So saying he strode ahead. ‘I presume I’m heading for the back, and the wash-house?’
Kate met him at the kitchen door.
‘No one goes into my wash-house! Out with you, young man. Sarah, lass, you didn’t tell me anyone was coming. An’ wots all this stuff?’
‘Clay, Gran. Mr Bellingham says I have to work with it — and there’s more on the front step — and there’s no place to store it except … ’
But Kate wasn’t listening. Momentarily silenced, she was studying the visitor.
Sarah begged, ‘Where can I keep it, Gran?’ Then the enormity of what her tutor had demanded suddenly registered and made her spin round. ‘Make something of it? Model with it? You know I can’t do any such thing! I’ve never learned … never tried … never even thought of it!’
Clive deposited the first pack on the kitchen table. The room was small and well equipped, but only for kitchen work. He looked at the old lady sympathetically but determinedly, resolved to take no opposition. He had worked swiftly to get his way, which had not been as difficult as he had anticipated. Daniel Frenshaw had been co-operative and even offered a supply of clay. ‘Take enough to keep her busy during the college break — a month, isn’t it? — and then bring the results to me. Depending on them, we’ll talk again.’
So here he was, faced with a disbelieving girl and an old woman who was studying him more closely than he felt was called for. He had heard that she was a garrulous soul, but at this moment she was silent, her eyes on his face and uncomfortably penetrating. She was obviously the kind of woman who could think a lot and hide it, but he took a liking to her. And, vaguely, something about her face puzzled him, as Sarah’s had done when first they met.
Kate said abruptly, ‘Ye’ve gotta do as you’re told, Sarah. If your teacher says ye’ve t’ do summat, that’s wot ye’ve gotta do. There’s an old dolly-tub outside. Won’t matter if clay’s stored in it ’cos the wrapping’ll stop any rust getting in, and though the lid’s seen better days it’ll do well enough as a storage bin. An’ we’ll shove things round in the wash-house so’s ye can use it. It’ll be a bit of a squash but I’ve seen potters work in less space.’ She turned to leave, but not before she had scrutinised Clive again. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t catch the name, sir.’
‘Bellingham. Clive Bellingham.’
After a second’s silence she said impassively, ‘Well, that’s nice enough,’ and walked out of the kitchen.
After the clay was stored, Clive opened one of the packs. It contained red earthenware, and Sarah’s face dropped.
‘What did you expect?’ he said. ‘Porcelain? You won’t be ready to model with that for quite a time. Meanwhile, this won’t bite you.’
Her dark eyes looked at him scornfully.
‘I know that. I’ve wedged enough of it in my time.’
‘Then why are you scared?’
‘Because I’ve never had the chance to watch anyone doing ceramic sculptures, let alone be taught. And I can’t think what Mr Frenshaw will say if he finds out what you’re up to. He’s paid for me to study porcelain painting and I’ve got to master that because there’ll be a job at the end of it.’
‘Don’t worry. He knows. How do you think I got hold of the clay?’
Struggling with disbelief, Sarah stammered, ‘I — I didn’t think. I was too surprised. Still am.’
‘I knew you would be, but I had to act quickly. I don’t want you wasting any more time in my class if you are better suited for another — as I believe you are. Those ad lib drawings of yours hinted where your real talent lies and I’m convinced I’m not wrong. Oh, I know you’d make a competent ceramic painter. You already handle a brush well and you’ve a good eye for colour — also design, but not the conventional kind. That’s too flat for you. Your eye is for form and shape and depth and movement and all the qualities needed to bring a lump of clay to life.’
She said wildly, ‘But Frenshaws don’t market that sort of thing! Figurines and suchlike aren’t one of their lines, so where and how am I to get a job even if I manage to do it? And where am I to learn? It’s all very well to say I should study for something else, Mr Bellingham — ’
‘Clive.’
‘ — but who’s going to pay the fees when Frenshaws refuse to — as they will, and who can blame them? And you know potbanks take on workers from families who’ve been with them for years, so who’s going to employ an unknown modeller who’s never worked in that line anywhere? And how d’ you know the bosses at the art school will agree to switch me to another course anyway? They won’t, Mr Bel — ’
‘Clive.’
‘They won’t, I tell you! Oh, my God, what’ve you been up to? The Master Potter’s a kind man and I guess he let you have this clay just to humour you — or get rid of you. But you needn’t think he’ll give me a job if I can’t be useful in some line of work Frenshaw produce. You’ve gone mad, Mr Bellingham — ’
‘Cli — ’
‘Stark, staring mad! I scarcely know how to handle clay, much less how to create anything from it.’
‘Then find out. And you know more than you think. Your apprenticeship must have taught you how to wedge clay until it’s in the right condition for use. And though I’m not a professional potter I do know that sculptures will blow up in a kiln unless they’re hollow, so bowls and vases and tableware are easiest and safest to fire. Go to Stoke’s museum and study the ceramic sculptures there. Look beneath the glass shelves displaying them above eye level and see the vent holes in their bases, put there — ’
'After the sculptor scooped out the solid clay inside and then covered the base with a flat piece and punctured it to allow air to circulate during firing. I know all that!’ she cried. ‘My father told me when I was small. He read everything he could lay his hands on about pottery, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be any good at the job. Besides,’ she choked, ‘I’ve dreamed of being a paintress all my life.’
Clive put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently. ‘You’re scared, Sarah, but there’s no need. I’ve a hunch about you and d’ you know what it is? That you’re courageous and talented but damned unsure of yourself. I wish I knew why.’ His hands fell away because he felt her shrink from his touch. Her reaction surprised and troubled him because he knew he had not hurt her. He had not even gripped her, so the only other reason had to be that she found his touch distasteful — or was afraid. The first explanation was so unflattering, and so far outside his personal experience, that he seized on the second. She was shy and inexperienced, unacquainted with men.
His interest quickened. She was an odd creature to be sure, but what had made her so? A narrow country upbringing? Chapel-going on Sundays accompanied by warnings about what happened to ‘bad’ girls? If ever there was a diffident virgin, this girl was she.
He said briskly, ‘You’ll be interested to know that I went to see Daniel Frenshaw first. I showed him your paintings but concentrated on the basic drawings, pointing out the directions your imagination was taking — not that I needed to because he spotted them at once — and I told him point blank what I felt you should do and how far I thought you could go.’
Seeing she was still unconvinced, he added impatiently, ‘Just because his potbank doesn’t go in for ceramic sculptures now doesn’t mean it won’t someday! And listen to this — he wants to see what you do produce — it doesn’t matter how rough or groping or amateurish or experimental. So now go and get down to it — create anything you want, follow any idea that comes into your head, and don’t think Daniel Frenshaw’s going to scorn them. He’ll examine them critically, but not unsympathetically. So snap out of it, Sarah. Stop being afraid. And remember that if you fail you can still go back to porcelain painting, though which would you honestly prefer to be — a competent porcelain painter sure of a safe job, or a skilled ceramic modeller making a name for herself?’
*
It was a challenge and an alarming one but, fearful as she was, the moment Sarah touched the clay an excitement ran through her. She wrenched off a lump, then regretted it. Clay needed a wire cutter to leave the surface smooth. She rolled the discarded lump into a ball and set it aside, then dashed to the kitchen for Kate’s old-fashioned cheese-cutter — two clothes pegs with a length of coarse wire between. What she really needed was the strong but smooth and supple kind with grip handles used by potters, but meanwhile this would have to do.
‘And wot are ye doing with that?’ Kate’s voice demanded from the wash-house door.
‘Don’t be angry, Gran. I’ll buy you a new one, soon as I can. There are modern cheese-cutters on the market now.’
‘Don’t want ’em. That cutter’s served me well all these years so mind wot ye’ do with it, lass. It seems to me that teacher o’ yours should’ve brought some tools as well as clay since he seems intent on interfering with the Master Potter’s scheme for ye.’
Sarah nodded toward a small pile of modelling tools. ‘The only thing he forgot was a clay cutter. As for interfering with the Master Potter’s plans, he isn’t. Daniel Frenshaw knows all about it. And I’m only being tested, Gran. It probably won’t come to anything because I’ve never tried to make something out of a lump of clay and doubt if I can.’
‘Your dad wanted ye to become a paintress and always declared ye would be. So why should that young man take it into ’is mind to differ? ’E don’t even come from these parts, I can tell.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘It could make a big dif’rence when it comes to a knowledge of clay. This is clay country. That young man comes from the South, ’tis plain from the way ’e talks.’ She almost added that since Sarah had taken up with Annabel Peterson she was speaking less and less like folk in these parts, then remembered that Annabel came from these parts too, and so did Daniel Frenshaw, and somehow she liked to hear her grandchild echoing the way they spoke. Her dear son had also had an instinctive leaning toward ‘eddicated’ speech. Some of his fellow workers had pulled his leg about it, but how proud it had made her feel!
And she liked the friendship that had sprung up between Sarah and the young lady from Downley Court because it had done a lot to draw Sarah out of her shell. They travelled to and from the art school together, Annabel going out of her way to pick Sarah up at nearby crossroads in the second-hand Ford her parents had bought her — second-hand at her own insistence because she didn’t want to look too well off compared with the rest of the students, most of whom travelled by tram or bus or walked, or used assorted vehicles of assorted ages and conditions. ‘My old banger,’ Annabel called it, feeling on a par with them and patting its bonnet with pride. Yes, she was a real nice girl, Annabel Peterson. Despite all she had, she wasn’t spoilt.
Sarah’s voice caught her attention. She was pointing out that a teacher had to know everything about clay and pottery-making to be able to teach ceramic painting. ‘So I guess Clive Bellingham knows what he’s talking about.’
Sarah surprised herself with her championship of the young man because only a short time ago she had been mustering her defences against him and feeling angry because he had left her in a state of bewilderment, parrying all her questions, brushing aside her protests. When she declared she had no notion of what to make or even how to begin he told her bluntly to try anything that moved and had life in it. ‘Go down to the lake and study the wildlife there. And don’t forget what I said about the exhibits in Stoke’s museum. The sooner you go there, the better.’
And get there she would, she vowed after he had gone. It didn’t matter that Dunmore Abbey was so far out. She would borrow one of the bicycles kept in an outhouse near the stables which Daniel Frenshaw had said were for the use of all on the estate, and she would time her journey to coincide with Joe Boswell’s working hours at the potbank and thus avoid any encounter when passing the smallholding. It was the route Bruce Frenshaw had taken when giving her a lift on that long-ago morning. Better still, she could take a roundabout but longer route and avoid that stretch of road altogether.
Her mind was so occupied that she was scarcely heedful of Kate’s presence, and even less so when a shape began to emerge from the clay in her hands, obliterating all other thought.
