The Tower Room, page 19
It was more than fear that left her shaken. By the time she reached home she had learned one thing and was strengthened by it — that anger was the greatest weapon anyone could have against fear. It grew in her as she battled again with the wind and the rain, a blind anger against Boswell which, from now on, would be her greatest defence against hideous reminders of him. Was she to allow this man to threaten her peace of mind for ever? By the time she reached home rage was seething within her, but when Kate opened the cottage door she was careful to show no sign of it. On no account would her grandmother hear of tonight’s encounter.
‘My goodness, lass, you’re drenched! Straight upstairs an’ into a hot bath ye go, an’ after that a good meal’s ready an’ waiting in t’ oven.’
Sarah called thanks over her shoulder as she raced upstairs, anger still raging though resolutely hidden. It was implanted deeply and permanently, a ballast against fear of the man, equalled only by a desire to get even with him somehow, someday, no matter how long she had to wait.
Thirteen
A day or two later Joe Boswell stamped through the cottage door, slammed it behind him, and said to his wife, ‘Heard the latest news about that daughter o’ yours?’
‘D’you expect me to?’ Mabel crossed to the kitchen range to stir the pot of stew which she topped up daily. (No one could accuse her of not seeing there was a regular supply of nourishment for her man.) Returning to the armchair in which she slouched for most of the day and picking up the damp stub of a half-smoked cigarette, she added, ‘Since she left Frenshaw’s she’s gone her own way — though I must admit she drops in regular on my birthday and afore Christmas.’
That fanned the resentment he’d been nursing since his recent encounter with the girl.
‘She don’t come when I be about. Why didn’t ye tell me?’
‘Didn’t think you’d be interested. After all, you’d no fondness for the lass. So wot’s this latest news about ’er an’ how did ye come by it?’
‘The Master Potter’s spending more fees on different training for ’er — clever stuff the potbank’s never gone in for before. Real favouritism that is. You know how word gets around — well, this time everyone’s agog with it, an’ more besides, thanks to that brat Daisy Wilkins who was an apprentice same time as Sarah and whose mam ain’t no better’n she should be.’
‘And how d’you know that, may I ask? And wot d’you mean by “more besides”?’
‘Daisy were bragging about her mam working at houses o’ the gentry when big parties were on, an’ how last New Year’s Eve her mam were taken on for the dance at Dunmore Abbey, handing round trays o’ champagne, an’ she were standing close to the reception line when in walks that daughter o’ yours wearin’ an evenin’ dress she could never’ve bought for ’erself. Knocked everyone back, it did. And knocked back somebody for more than a tidy sum, from the sound of it.’
‘Gossip,’ sniffed Mabel, as if she never listened to it. ‘That Wilkins woman’s a born liar, anyway. And that New Year’s Eve dance at the abbey is known to be for estate workers, which Sarah and her old gran are not.’
‘They were there, anyway. That chap Lefever too. The Master Potter always invites one or two of his top workers.’ Joe added in a resentful mutter, ‘Should’ve been me, not that Frenchie,’ whereupon Mabel looked wistful and Joe hoped t’ God she wouldn’t start whining about that when she’d had time to chew it over.
‘That girl o’ yours has got real uppity now she’s in with the gentry,’ he growled.
‘The gentry? Our Sarah? Come off it, Joe. Living in a worker’s cottage at the abbey don’t mean she mixes with any but the neighbours. They were a lucky pair to get a cottage there an’ I’d dear like to know how it came about. My guess is, Kate fixed it. First she gets that almshouse, an’ next she’s moved to the Dunmore estate! If I knew how she wangles it I wouldn’t mind taking a leaf out of her book. This place is all work and no profit, though it could pay orlright if you’d lend a hand.’
‘Or if you spent less time an’ money on tarting yourself up.’ Joe heeled off his muddy boots and kicked them across the kitchen. Mabel was becoming a real old whiner — hated living out here in the country, hankering for ever to be back in Burslem, and getting worse since he had been downgraded. If anyone had cause for complaint, it was he.
And now he was stuck in a rut serving beneath that Frenchie and hating it, while every other thrower heeded whatever the man said or did. Enough to make you sick, it was, and even more so when the Master Potter congratulated the bastard on the shed’s increased efficiency. At the end of his first year the profits on Frenshaw’s thrown ware were up substantially, due (so everyone declared) to those impressive Grecian urns that were selling to rich estates both at home and abroad. But Joe wouldn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he reminded them that in the immediate years following the war there’d been a general boom in trade throughout the country and Lefever couldn’t be praised for that.
‘As for them newspapers now predicting a slump, they’re talking up their arses.’
But no one seemed to pay much heed to his opinions these days. Mabel certainly didn’t. Since that girl of hers left home she had been forever grouching, though there’d been nothing they could do to get her back. The authorities had made that plain enough since the girl was in the care of her grandmother and well housed, and now she was older there was even less hope. Mabel accused him of driving the girl away with his bullying. Bullying, when all he’d ever done was to get the hots for her! Not that Mabel suspected that, nor ever would. Not a soul in the world knew about the physical satisfaction he had craved, and finally seized.
But once wasn’t enough, especially since his encounter with her on that wet night. He couldn’t get over the change in her — the way she looked, the way she spoke, even an air of confidence about her despite her screams which, he had decided on later reflection, had had one intention only — to rouse Mabel — and in that she had succeeded, damn her. As for her air of defiant self-confidence, rumour had it that she’d gone on to greater things at that art school because the Master Potter had seen pieces she had modelled freehand, straight from the clay. No doubt such success had gone to her head.
Or was she so favoured because she was letting the man have his way with her? The thought made his gall rise.
‘So wot’s all this about Sarah and the gentry?’ Mabel asked. He didn’t mention his suspicions about the girl’s whoring with the Master Potter because how the hell could he prove it? But it scared him nonetheless because having the man’s ear that way could certainly mean she could cause trouble. So all he said was, ‘She’s well in with that Peterson girl from Downley Court.’
‘I know that. They both go to that Design School an’ I’ve seen ’em together.’
‘Where?’
‘Driving to Burslem. The Peterson girl’s got a two-seater an’ gives Sarah a lift. And why not? My daughter’s as good as Annabel Peterson, an’ don’t you forget it.’
‘Then why don’t she come to see you regular, like, not just birthdays an’ Christmas?’
There was only one reason that Mabel could see and she voiced it now, angrily. ‘Mebbe because she don’t wanta see you.’
That startled him. Surely to God Mabel hadn’t got wind about that night, which he could only remember as a glorious haze of sexual savagery and satisfying brutality, but which he’d been confident no wench like his stepdaughter would dare tell anyone about. Now he had reason to fear otherwise and at a high and dangerous level, though he couldn’t imagine a pottery lord like Daniel Frenshaw continuing to want a brat who’d been raped like a guttersnipe.
Mabel’s voice jerked him back. ‘And it’s my guess she don’t wanta see you because she never liked you. I always took your side, but it made no difference. I remember how she useter try to dodge riding to the potbank with you, though I never understood why.’
‘That’s all over,’ he growled, ‘an’ a good thing; too. A mischief-making little bitch she were, spreading lies about me — ’
‘Lies! What lies?’
‘That I useter strike her — me, wot never hurt a hair of her head! She even told that to the Master Potter an’ got me downgraded. That’s the sorta girl your daughter be. Ye should’ve brought her up better, so y’ can’t blame me if she don’t give a damn for ye now.’
‘Joe Boswell, I don’t believe a word! Looking back, it seems t’ me that trouble never started until I married you. Right from the start the kid feared you and, if you want the truth, I don’t get in touch with ’er now for that reason. If she be happy the way she is, then let ’er be. As for wearing a fine ballgown, how d’ ye know it weren’t lent by the Peterson girl? Bet she's got loads.’
‘Calm down, Mabel — ’
But Mabel couldn’t. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she missed her daughter. Now she railed at her husband, ‘This could’ve been a real home if you'd behaved nicer to her and pulled your weight with the smallholding.’
‘The smallholding’s yours, not mine. If ye’d have the sense to put it in my name, that’d be diff’rent. That’s wot a wife should rightly do, specially one who don’t know how to run the place. Women weren’t meant to own property, so make it over to me or let it run to seed, take your pick, but stop laying blame at my door because your lass scarpered.’
‘I reckon Frenshaws would have summat t’ say if I tried to pass this property on to you or anybody else, since they settled it on me as a pension.’
‘Frenshaws needn’t know.’
‘They’d find out, surely? I’d need a lawyer to do it, wouldn’t I, since the thing was tied legally? So how could anything be hushed up?’
Mabel seemed to have calmed down a bit so Joe changed his tone from aggression to persuasion.
‘There’s no need to go to the same lawyer, Mabel luv, nor one anywhere near the Potteries. Liverpool’s a centre for all sorts of goings-on and it ain’t all that far to go. Dockside there is lined with pubs where all sorts o’folk can make all sorts o’ contacts.’
‘I wouldn’t want anything crooked, Joe.’
In her voice, uncertainty vied with interest. It would be a relief to hand over responsibility for this place. She disliked keeping poultry and pigs and all the mucky work that went with them, like when they had that cow Flossie. She’d been glad to sell the beast for a good deal less than they had paid for it, making the excuse that young Sarah was frightened of it, though at first she hadn’t been. Mabel had never forgotten the way the kid had taken to crying at the sight of her.
As for the land work, the sewing and planting and hoeing and digging and all the other jobs that went with it, she couldn’t for the life of her get the hang of it, and though folks told her it was easy to learn and all she had to do was ask some market gardener to take her on for a learning session (they were always glad of free help) she had lost interest after the failure of her, first attempts. Man’s work, as she saw it, was for husbands, so she had considered Joe to be heaven-sent, but that had proved to be right only in bed.
He was looking at her now with that come-on look, but for once she didn’t respond.
‘I can’t see how you could run this place and work at the potbank, Joe. I know you don’t have the position there that you useter, but you’d still have to work the same hours to get the same money.’
‘Don’t bank on that lasting. There’s a slump coming, some say, in spite of the boom after the war. That didn’t last, God knows.’
‘You mean you’re likely to be out of work, the finest thrower in Staffordshire? That’s wot you’ve always called yourself, so surely the Master Potter wouldn’t be so daft as to let you go?’
‘He’s bin daft enough to put that Frenchie above me, which speaks for itself, don’t it?’
‘But why did he? Ye’ve never told me.’
He dodged that.
‘C’m’ on, Mabel — face facts. Wot we need is security an’ this smallholding can give it us providing I’m in charge. If you really can’t put it in anybody else’s name, then sell it. Nobuddy can stop ye doing that. It’ll fetch a tidy sum an’ set us up elsewhere in wotever way we fancy, an’ don’t forget that daughter o’ yours ain’t round our necks no more. It’s just the two of us now. The sale of this place could set me up as a potter on my own — one-man potteries don’t do so bad, y’ know, working for themselves an’ selling their wares direct an’ taking all the profit.’ He finished with a touch of impatience. ‘Don’t look so worried, luv. I can’t think wot’s the matter with ye lately. Y’useter ask my advice on everything.’
‘But never on getting rid of property that belongs to me an’ nobody else.’
She saw an ugly change in his expression and for the first time fear pricked her, followed by a startling question. What would George advise?
But George wasn’t here. For the first time since she became enamoured of this man she thought of her first husband with longing.
Fourteen
At the precise time that the Boswells were enjoying their marital bickering, Daniel was riding through the Dunmore estates, taking careful stock of everything with an eye to a future which would astonish everyone in the pottery industry.
For a long time he had cherished an ambition — to build the potbank of his dreams set amidst healthy surroundings where Frenshaws’ potters would breathe good, clean air and work in better conditions than the present ones. Now the war was over he was determined to fulfil that dream, and counted himself lucky that he was able to.
After a thorough survey of the miles beyond the abbey, he returned via the south side of the lake and turned east. He was just in time to see his brother heading for his own quarters. So Bruce had left the potbank before closure, which meant one of two things — that work in the export department had been completed early (which could be a bad sign, indicating a decline in overseas orders) or that he had left the staff to get on with the job while he himself knocked off — for what other reason than a social one? It had happened before.
Resolving to tackle his brother about failing to pull equal weight with others, Daniel climbed the spiralling east staircase leading to the unused tower room. He was surprised that the door lending into the room should be locked, but for the purpose of surveying he had all necessary keys. Once inside, he was also surprised that the door leading from the room into the main body of the abbey was also locked, but was intelligent enough to guess why. His brother had taken double precautions against intrusion.
In one way that didn’t surprise him; in another it did, for it barred Cynthia from easy access from within, confining her to outside entry at ground level, the whole of which formed Bruce’s apartments. Daniel had no proof that his wife visited Bruce there, or indeed any proof of actual infidelity. All he had was the evidence of his eyes when seeing the pair together; Cynthia’s unmistakable glow following sexual satisfaction, and the flimsy excuses with which she absented herself from home. A man needed more than that to free himself from a wife he no longer loved and who no longer loved him. Now, in the twenties, adultery was the most usual plea for divorce, though sexual deviations could also be cited but were diligently hushed up.
On the first of these grounds Daniel could not yet act because all he had was suspicion. Until recently, he had accepted the situation and found solace and forgetfulness in work, but that was no longer enough. Since dancing with Sarah on New Year’s Eve, feeling the closeness of her body and the depth of her distress, it was becoming impossible to deny the truth about his feelings for her. His outrage over her humiliation, and his swift desire to comfort and defend her, had dominated him that night.
The painful part was knowing that she saw him only as an employer who was also a benefactor — and a man much older than herself into the bargain.
Pulling himself back to the present, he reminded himself that he was here to inspect a room which he planned to utilise. He had been familiar with it in boyhood and it was ideal for the purpose he now had in mind. He jotted a list of things on which he would seek a surveyor’s opinion and then, leaving both doors unlocked, climbed to the crenellated roof from where almost the entire span of Dunmore’s estates could be viewed, only to find he was thwarted by a dusk which was beginning to obscure them. An early morning view would serve him better, but meanwhile he let his glance cover the near distance, spanning the area of grounds surrounding the abbey and the clusters of workers’ houses beyond the lake. He could see the cottage now housing Kate and Sarah, and was glad he had at last achieved what he had wanted to do for a long time, but distressed by the thought of the events leading to its final accomplishment.
On two things he was determined — that never would Sarah learn that he knew about the rape, and that he would continue to campaign against Union rules which prevented him from sacking a man who was a capable worker despite being a bad character. He had started that one-man campaign the day Kate had arrived at his office and he would continue the fight until he won, no matter how long it took.
The air was growing chill up here on the abbey’s roof, but he lingered awhile, gazing down on the lake. A dark shadow on the water’s edge was the dilapidated old boat in which generations of Frenshaw children had learned to row. Now it was disused and, at Cynthia’s decision, remained so.
‘We can’t risk the lives of estate children,’ she had declared with unusual common sense. ‘They’d be sure to take the boat out unsupervised, and if we tried to stop them there’d be protests from parents and we'd still be blamed if an accident happened. That could lead to a lot of expensive trouble and we don’t want that.’
