The Children's Book

shaking too much to hold on to it genteelly.

It was somehow clear that Seraphita had no idea of what to do, and did not propose to do anything.

That left Olive, who was a grown woman, and Frank Mallett, who was a clergyman. He consulted Olive, and it was agreed that Miss Warren should be found a place to rest, and perhaps some temporary fresh clothing. Olive bent over Elsie and said it was very odd to be present at the discovery of two runaways in one family. She was thinking what a good story it would make, the girl who had walked across half England to find her brother. She smiled at Elsie, absently, studying her intently. Elsie said later to Philip that there was something witchy about the woman with the hat. Somewhere under the gratified storyteller in Olive stirred a memory of her own flight from indigence in the north. Philip had no intention of telling the assembled gathering that his mother was dead, so Olive had no clue that Elsie was, in some ways, close to her own younger self. But she sensed it, she sensed something, of which she would not speak.

A display had been arranged—it was Geraint’s idea—of some of the new vessels, and one or two different layouts of Philip’s newly designed tiles. Fludd called Philip over to talk to Prosper Cain about the glazes, and about how he had chosen the designs, the Dungeness flora, seakale and bladderwrack, crane-flies and fennel. Prosper spoke knowledgeably about the glazes, and admired the steely blue-green, and the rich red, with surprising pinky-white wings in it. Humphry said—as it was hoped he would say—that a fortune could be made, if these were properly marketed. He had been to the Martin Brothers’ showroom in Brownlow Street. Something like that might help. Geraint said “There are lots of little shops in Rye showing all sorts of crafts. There could be a better shop, for better work.” Humphry said Geraint had the right ideas—was he a potter? No, said Geraint, no, he should like to work in a bank, or some such place, he was interested in that sort of life. Humphry smiled. He had just become reconciled with his brother Basil, who had, after all, heeded his warnings about Barnato’s bank and the Kaffir shares, and was indeed, as his friends were ruined, or committed suicide, prepared to show gratitude to Humphry, and had offered to pay all Tom’s fees at public school. Humphry told Geraint that he should ask advice of his brother the banker. He would take him to see him, when they were both in Town. Basil would advise, might even find a suitable position, in due course. Geraint flushed, and thanked him.

Tom had told Julian that he was to take the exam for Marlowe next summer. He said it had looked as though he might not go there, lately, but now they were looking for tutors, or tutorial colleges. He wasn’t sure that was what he wanted, at all. Julian looked at Tom, and thought he was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen. Marlowe would love him. He was not sure Tom would love Marlowe. He thought he, Julian, could easily, easily fall in love with Tom. All he said was, noncommittally, that Marlowe wasn’t too bad, as schools went. Not too bad, really.

Prosper Cain said that the pots were the work of a master, and a master working at the height of his powers. He admired a peacocky platter with scattered gold and silver fruit all over it, and said he would certainly like to have it, for the Museum if he could bear to part with it, for himself, in all events. Olive picked up a small red vessel—part pot, part sculpture, which was a curled black demon, tailed and stubby-horned, holding a flame-coloured, incurving cup which was at once a fire and a cauldron. “This I must have,” said Olive to Benedict Fludd. “He has the most wicked face, he means mischief.”

“The luck of the firing,” said Fludd. “There’s one over there whose face doesn’t come through the glaze. You have a good eye.” He bent gallantly over her hand. He told Philip to wrap it, but Olive was reluctant to let it go, turning it in her hand, near the window.

Frank Mallett had asked Imogen to find something, perhaps, for Elsie Warren to wear, since she was so dusty. And maybe some water? he said, wondering why exactly the Purchase women were so languid and inept. Imogen did as she was asked, and Elsie appeared timidly in the doorway in a trailing black skirt and a kind of woven overblouse with orange and brown chrysanthemums. Neither of these garments fitted her. Imogen had not thought of pins, or needles. Elsie still had her cracked and dusty shoes, and still wore her dusty scarf, which she had refused to relinquish, because she knew her hair was horrible. Frank said he hoped she was comfortable. She stared defensively round the room, and then hitched up her skirt, and began to clear away the used cups and plates. She found the scullery, and the sink. The company went on talking. Elsie came back and asked Philip in an undertone about hot water and dishcloths. She had found something to do, and understood that there was a need for it. Frank Mallett smiled at her, and thanked her, since no one else appeared to think of doing so. Prosper Cain and Humphry were talking to Benedict Fludd about showrooms and students. Julian was talking to Tom. Dorothy found Philip, and said she liked his work. She said that it was amazing that his sister had found him. How was his mother?

Philip looked at Dorothy’s sharp, practical, interested face. “She came to say she is dead,” he said.

Dorothy said she was sorry, and was. She imagined Philip receiving this news, and thought he must feel bad not to have been there. “You couldn’t know,” she said. “I could’ve sent an address. I didn’t.”

“She probably understood, you know.”

Dorothy was not sure how much mothers understood, in fact, but a bleak look had come into Philip’s face, and she wanted to change it.

“I don’t know as she did. Elsie’s mad at me. She’s brought me my mother’s brushes. My mother said to give them to me.”

“You see, she understood.” That was a good thing to say, whether or not it was true. She said

“Of course, Elsie’s mad at you. But she’s there to make it up to.”

Philip looked gloomy. Dorothy remembered how much she had liked him, before. She said

“Those tiles. They’re very good, you know that. The way you make patterns out of real things. So that you see the flies and fennel, you can really see them.”

“I did want to make pots—”

“And just see what luck you’ve had. It feels as though it’s a kind of fate, you know. You must go on making pots, that’s for certain.”

14

The winter that followed St. Martin’s Summer was sodden and severe. The end of golden 1895 was struck with gloom. On Monday December 23rd the whole Tartarinov family rushed uphill to Todefright, brandishing a telegram. The Wellwoods gathered in their hall already decorated for Christmas with green boughs, holly and mistletoe. Stepniak was dead, said Vasily Tartarinov. Humphry had visions of bombs, or furtive stabbing. Tartarinov was in tears. Stepniak had indeed died violently, possibly accidentally, possibly not. He had walked onto a railway line, near his home in Bedford Park, and had been cut down by a train, and killed, more or less instantly. It was a local train, on a single track. The driver had whistled and braked, whistled and braked, in vain. It was hard to understand, said Tartarinov, waving expressive hands, mopping his face, how Stepniak could have failed to get out of the way. Maybe his foot was caught. Maybe he had been overwhelmed by personal sorrows and the sorrows of the world, and had decided to end his life. We shall not see his like again, said Vasily Tartarinov, whilst the Wellwood family ordered tea to be brewed, and tried to help him compose himself. No, we shall not see his like again, Humphry agreed,