Rough Clay Read online

  ROUGH CLAY

  ROUGH CLAY

  Chrissie Loveday

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  Epub ISBN 978 1 445 82444 4

  U.K. Hardcover ISBN 978 1 408 49211 6

  U.K. Softcover ISBN 978 1 408 49212 3

  Copyright © 2005 by Chrissie Loveday

  All rights reserved.

  To the memory of my Mother and Father.

  To Mark, Peter and Tim and their families.

  To John, to thank him for encouraging me to write this and for putting up with all my moods!

  To everyone who gave me such valuable information about the Potteries.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1917

  ‘Archie,’ his mother called. ‘You’ll have to go down the cellar and get some coal. I daren’t try the steps. Not in my condition.’ The skinny boy sighed. He got up from his freezing perch on the back step and went inside. The temperature wasn’t much better inside, this November day. The meagre fire in the little iron grate was almost dying. The coal bucket was empty and his mother was sitting huddled under a knitted blanket in the one easy chair. Her stomach bulged in front. Archie thought it looked awful. Ugly. Revolting. If he ever had a wife, he’d never let her get like that. Babies. Who wanted them anyhow? He picked up the zinc clad bucket and went down into the dark cellar. He knew the steps so well that he moved quickly into the pitch black darkness. He gathered up the bits of coal and dropped them with a clank into the bucket. The slack on the ground was easy to pick up and he added a good few shovels to the lumps already gathered. Once the bigger pieces were alight, the slack was shovelled on top to keep the fire going. If you let the big stuff burn too quickly, the fire was finished too soon.

  ‘It won’t always be like this,’ he hissed to himself angrily. ‘One day, I’ll have enough money to make a difference. Always skimping and struggling.’

  He gritted his teeth and continued. They were lucky to have coal at all. There were several houses in the street who never even had a fire some days. Every weekend, the local mothers and kids clambered over the slag heaps at the pits, hoping to gather enough bits of unused coal to make a fire to cook hot food for the Sunday lunch. It was the one day of the week when everyone tried to sit down together to eat a decent meal.

  Archie’s dad, Ralph, was a miner. He was a ripper working right at the coal face, doing one of the most dangerous of jobs. He was allowed a bag of coal most weeks as part of his wages. Being a miner was considered a good job. The pay wasn’t so bad but when you knew the conditions they had to work in, even an absolute fortune would never have been enough. The thick, dirty air deep in the mines polluted everyone’s lungs. Few miners lived to old age and many never even saw forty. The men came out blacker than the coal itself and every cut or nick in the flesh became stained forever with a dark line. The black crescents all over his father’s arms and chest fascinated Archie. Caused by the chips of rock as they flew through the air, they looked like irregular tattoos. No amount of washing could ever remove them. Dad did his best to flush away the worst of the grime each evening at the pit head but there was only a cold pump in the yard. Dirt this ingrained needed soap and hot water and a good deal of scrubbing.

  ‘What you doing down there?’ called his Mum crossly. ‘Sitting in the dark, dreaming away. I don’t know what’s the matter with you. You’re not normal.’

  Archie gave a sigh. It was dreaming that kept him going. Dreams of bright colours and intangible, beautiful things he could not really define. They kept him fighting against his dismal prospects and ever critical mother. He climbed back up the steps. They were steep and it was all he could do to haul the heavy bucket up. His little legs made the journey upwards, back into the gloomy light of the living room.

  ‘There y’are, Mum. That’ll soon get you warm again.’ Even at the tender age of nine, he sensed there was nothing that could ever make his Mum warmer. Her heart was frozen, her mouth a tight little line from years of clamping it together. He didn’t understand why she was always so miserable. He knew there had been other babies on the way but as he was still an only child, something must have happened to them. This baby inside his mother seemed to be growing well but it didn’t make her any more cheerful. ‘Did you want me to back up the fire then?’

  ‘Thanks, son,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll have to get something hot for your Dad’s tea. He’ll be home soon enough. Can you put that big bone in the pan for me and bring it in? I’ll put it over the fire and it can begin to heat through.’

  ‘Will I put an onion in as well?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t think there’s one left. It’ll just be the last few potatoes tonight. I’ll have to go to the shop tomorrow, God willing.’

  Archie looked in the meat safe in the back scullery. He picked up the virtually bare knuckle bone left from the roast on Sunday. He put it in the blackened iron stew-pot and poured water over it. At least there was water inside the house, even if you had to work hard to pump it out. The miners mostly had their own pumps, to help wash away the colliery grime. The fortunate few who had water inside always helped the other locals when the water froze in the communal pump outside, as it did so often in winter.

  ‘I’ve put some salt and pepper in the pot, Mum. It should make a good soup, a bone like that,’ he lied as he placed it on the iron pot stand over the fire.

  ‘You’re a good boy, Archie,’ his Mum said, though her face never relaxed its grim expression. He smiled and wondered if now would be a good time to tell her what the teacher had said.

  ‘Mum,’ he began. He saw her expression of utter weariness and decided against speaking. The trouble was, time was running out and his entire future depended on it. He had to give his teacher an answer by the end of the week. ‘It’s all right. It’s nothing. Now, am I to put the kettle over the flame, as well? Make you a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks, love, but I’ll wait a bit longer.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be out the back.’ The boy went back to his position on the back step. He pulled out the last inch of a Woodbine and stuck it in his mouth. The illicit treat was his reward for completing Billy Machin’s sums. Billy was the son of the local corner shop and had access to all manner of such treats. He wasn’t the brightest of boys and Archie regularly helped him out with his school work, for a modest price. Trouble was, one Woodbine never lasted long enough. He would ration himself so it lasted for a bit longer than the five minutes he could have taken. Though both his parents smoked, they’d have been very shocked to discover Archie’s addiction at so young an age.

  The boy looked up at the smoke laden sky. He sniffed the familiar smell. It was always the same. There were heavy fumes hanging over the chimneys of the cramped lines of houses. The coarse, unrefined coal they burned gave off a smell that clung inside the mouth. Apart from the domestic users, there were many others who polluted the atmosphere. If it wasn’t the pottery kilns belching out smoke and chemicals, it was the treatment plants at the collieries. Everyone round here who was capable of working was employed in the potbanks or down the pits. Life was grey and dusty, summer and winter alike. Only a few weeds struggled through the cobbled yards when it was spring but that was a long way off. They’d laid out a city park a few years before, at the top of the hill where the gentry lived. He’d been to look with some of the other lads when he was much younger. The workmen had told him to bugger off. They didn’t want such urchins making a mess of their beautiful parks. There was a lake with boats for hire before the war. And best of all, there were places to play football.

  ‘One day, I’ll have my own garden with flowers and all. One day, I’m going to be famous.’ He spoke fiercely to the grimy bricks in front of him. He picked up a bit of old slate and drew a design on the brick w
all. It was a fluid shape, a vase outline with a flat bottom and perfectly matching second side. He drew a handle on the side, more flowing lines which gave him utmost pleasure to look at. He scrubbed at it with his sleeve, knowing he’d get a cuff round the ears if he left it for his mother to see. He was always drawing when he had the means. In school, his slate was always filled with squiggles and lines when he should have been practising his handwriting. He developed a signature with masses of curlicues and the letters joining together to make a design. One day, the signature was going to be known all over the world, he promised himself.

  ‘Where are you, Archie?’ called an angry voice. Mum had got up from her seat by the fire. Time for him to move. ‘What are you doing out there in the cold? Get in here at once you stupid child. It’s cold enough for snow. You’ll catch your death.’

  He dragged on the final bit of cigarette and stabbed it against the wall. He hated the way his mother always bossed him around. One day, he’d stand up to her but for now, he knew from experience it was best to do as he was told. He went into the cramped house, the glow of the gas lamp making it look warmer and more inviting than usual. But the lights only showed up the immense ugliness of the place. The drab walls were a dirty brownish grey from the constant fumes of heating and lamps. There was a grubby rag rug on the floor, the only concession to warmth on the pitted quarry tiles.

  ‘Lay the table, son,’ his mother ordered. He picked up the ugly earthenware plates and the coarse knives and forks. When the baby was older, he’d need his own set to eat from. Some of the factories made the most beautiful, delicate china. Plates, cups and saucers for the gentry to use. He’d seen some of it in the shops when he went into Burslem, the nearest town. He spent hours staring in at the windows, wondering how anything so lovely was meant to be used every day. How could anyone be so rich? Surely it was only the King and Queen who could have anything so perfect on their tables. He thought about it some more. If it was really only the King and Queen ate their meals off fine china, who else would buy it? There must be a few very rich folk around here, he thought. One day, I’m going to be like them, he promised himself.

  With a sigh of longing for things beyond his reach, Archie put the scarred wooden bread board next to his mother’s place. The three enamel mugs were still in the sink, supposedly soaking away the dark stains from hundreds of earlier brews. As he tipped out the water, he recognised the futility of even asking if he could sit for the school scholarship, as his teacher wanted him to do. He was supposed to take a note from his parents giving their permission. Truth to tell, he wasn’t exactly sure if his parents could even write. But the note was only the first hurdle. If he got anywhere near winning the scholarship, that would be the time to bother his parents with any details. He heard the back gate slam and the rattle of metal studs on the cobbled yard.

  ‘Dad’s home,’ he called to his mother.

  ‘Put the kettle back on the hob,’ she called.

  ‘Hallo, love. How ya doin’?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m feelin’ a bit poorly, truth to tell. Not much longer now, though. I reckon it’s another lad. Ready to play for the Vale any minute!’

  ‘And has Archie been a good lad? Helped your Mum have you?’ The boy peered round the scullery door and looked at the big man. His father leaned down and ruffled his hair.

  ‘I did, Dad. Honest. Got the coal up and everything.’

  ‘Good lad. Now. Where’s my slippers? Got ’em warming by the fire have you?’

  The child ambled over to the grate and lifted the old worn boots that Dad called slippers. The toes had worn through and the tops had been cut down so Dad could slide his feet into them. There was no money to spare for such luxuries as a second pair of shoes or even a first pair, for all of them. Dad had to have sound boots to work in, so he was the exception. What ever would it be like when this new baby came into the family? Archie assumed they’d manage somehow, just as they always did.

  The kettle came to the boil. He picked up the fat brown teapot and poured water onto the tea leaves. They were the same leaves that started the day at breakfast time, a few new fresh leaves added to make the thick, black, treacly brew that his parents loved. The last drop of sterilised milk gave the accustomed orange tinge to the concoction. He drank down his own share, never imagining that tea could ever taste any different. He believed whatever his parents did was the same as everyone else and the only way to go about living life. Despite his inexplicable love of beautiful things, it never occurred to him to question routines that had always been part of his life.

  Once his dad had washed his hands, as well as he could in the conditions, they all sat down. The meat bone had produced an insipid stock into which potato and one lone piece of carrot had been added. His father had the lion’s share, a little was poured onto his mother’s plate and the last drop was poured over the thick slice of bread on his own dish. He ate hungrily, wiping every last drop from the plate.

  ‘Good eh, son?’ Dad said. Archie smiled and nodded. He wished there was at least twice as much. He could have eaten that and more.

  ‘Can I have another slice of bread?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll be short for breakfast if you do. Go on then. You can have a thin slice.’ He took it hungrily and tried to chew it slowly, to make it last. All too soon it was gone. If their family was among the better off, the poor folks must really be suffering, Archie thought. It wasn’t fair. None of it.

  ‘They say the war’s going to drag on for yet another year,’ Ralph Barnett said, as they began to clear the table.

  ‘How terrible for the poor sods stuck in the trenches. I’ve heard some of the women talking,’ said Frances. ‘Thank God you haven’t been called up.’

  ‘And nor will I be called up. They need every scrap of coal they can get. They’re not likely to send any of our lot to France. They’re saying as mining’s a reserved occupation.’

  The boy sat quietly, listening to his parents. The war sounded like some far away story that had been going on for as long as he could remember. It was a situation too far removed for him to understand much about it. As everything was in short supply hereabouts, war or peace was all the same to him. Every day seemed exactly the same. With a start, he remembered the date from the blackboard at school. Wasn’t November the sixteenth his birthday? He waited for a break in the conversation so he could ask. But there never seemed to be a right moment. He had a sudden thought. If he mentioned he was now ten years old, his Dad might start talking about his future again. He had no intention of following the sort of future his dad had in mind for him and kept quiet about the possibility of a birthday.

  The weather worsened as November turned into December. The baby was due any day now and Archie had still felt unable to mention the scholarship that could lead him to the grammar school and a proper education. Not that he had left things to take their natural course. He didn’t dare risk that. In a moment of madness and longing, he’d written the note himself, the one supposed to be from his parents. In his best handwriting, a pencil stub he’d picked up from Machin’s one day and using a brown paper bag he’d saved, he wrote the words.

  Dear Teacher. I give my permission to Archie to sit whatever exams you think fit. Yours faithfully, Frances Barnett. (Mrs)

  He’d signed it with something less fancy than the signature he’d been practising for himself. The teacher had stared at the paper bag and the words on it. The writing was childish and rather familiar. If he guessed the truth, he said nothing. He well understood the longing and needs of the child. That the boy was special and gifted, he had no doubt. He knew a little of his background and the grinding poverty of the whole area. He could hardly blame the boy for trying to better himself, though he suspected that the future held no easy route out of it for this particular child. He put the boy’s name forward for the scholarship and kept his fingers crossed.

  ‘You’ll have to do some extra work at home, you know. Will it cause any problems?’ he asked.

 
; ‘No, sir. None at all, sir. Only thing is,’ he hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’ encouraged the teacher.

  ‘Well, sir. We’re a bit short of paper. You know, the sort you have to do homework on.’ His face burned at his admission. It felt like letting down his Mum and Dad.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He smiled at the boy. The teacher knew what poverty meant to everyone in this area. If he hadn’t been sickly himself, doubtless he too would have been sunk deep into the hell of the trenches. If he hadn’t been poorly as a child, he would probably have been a miner himself, just like his father and brothers. He’d had to fight to learn everything just as Archie did. But strangely, ill-health had given him the opportunity to educate himself and eventually to become a teacher. He glanced at the old, used brown paper bag that contained the few words, supposedly from the boy’s mother. With such determination, there had to be a way.

  ‘What do you want to do with your life, son?’ the teacher asked.

  ‘Make something beautiful and be famous. I want to be rich enough to eat me dinner off them best, proper china plates, like they have in the shops in Burslem.’

  ‘I see. And how will you become famous exactly? What do you want to be remembered for?’

  ‘I dunno yet. Probably for making summat beautiful. Summat people can keep for ever, just to look at and enjoy. But I reckon I have to learn a lot first. That’s why I want to sit this exam. Why my Mum wants me to sit it,’ he corrected.

  ‘You’re a bright enough lad. Now, go on with you. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, as the child went out. He watched as the poor little lad went out into the cold. His patched jacket, an old cut-down one of his father’s no doubt, was all he had against the icy December blast. His shoes slopped about on his feet. They probably belonged to his mother. How on earth could Archie cope at the grammar, even if he passed his scholarship? All that would buy was his education fees. He’d be expected to wear uniform and provide text books as well as his own exercise books. Something might turn up, he sighed desperately but he couldn’t quite think what it might be.