Candlemas Eve: A Thing of Beauty II

Candlemas Eve

A Thing of Beauty II

Edward Bloor

The author wishes to thank:

Dr. Ian K. Bloor of Stoke-on-Trent, England,

the late Wilfred Alan Bloor of Scott Hay,

Staffordshire, England,

and Jim Carlucci of Trenton, New Jersey,

for their essential contributions to Candlemas Eve.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 by Edward Bloor.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction set against a backdrop of real events. Any similarities between the characters and real people are unintended and coincidental.

For Pam

Thus times do shift, each thing its turn does hold;

New things succeed, as former things grow old.

--Robert Herrick,

Ceremonies for Candlemas Eve

Chapter 1

Stoke, England, 1880

All is not well. Celeste Potter whispered the words against the pane of her bedroom window, leaving an imprint of fog on the glass that quickly disappeared. Celeste lit a candle and shivered with a combination of cold and eerie dread.

She leaned back and watched, growing increasingly worried, as the black sky changed to drizzling gray, giving form to the town’s hazy outlines. What had looked like a knight holding a sword emerged as a church and its steeple; what had looked like three kneeling angels emerged as three bottle-shaped kilns at the Chapel Street Pottery. Celeste wrapped a woolen blanket around her small frame and moved away from the window. Although now eight years old, Celeste had, in fact, just celebrated her second true birthday. She had been born on February 29, 1872, leaving her with only quadrennial birthdays, and earning her the nickname Leapling from her brother Jack.

Twelve blocks away at the Chapel Street works, all was not well. Celeste’s father, Will Potter, had entered the steam room ten minutes before and fired up its great engine. But he had barely time to remove his coat and set down his lunch when the thick rope broke and the engine seized up. He stuck his head out the door and cast his dark eyes left and right down the hallway, looking for the supervisor, George Grisby.

There was no sign of him, so Will leaned in and grabbed the frayed end of the jammed rope himself, trying to get a grip. He pulled at it mightily, so mightily he lost his balance. His right arm flailed almost on its own, trying to steady the rest of him. But instead he lurched forward and to the left, and his other arm wedged itself between two sharp blades of steel. Will was more surprised than horrified. He stared down at his arm as if it were someone else’s, held there in the machine’s grip firmly, mercilessly, as a stream of blood started to flow from the crook of his elbow.

Will pulled his head back and called out for help, calmly at first, and then with rising panic. But there was no help to be had. Ten minutes later, an apprentice boy, dispatched by his master to see why the engine wasn’t operating, entered the room and beheld the nearly white body of Will Potter, hunched over the steam engine like the wax figure of a worker. The boy screamed, attracting two other apprentice boys, who then joined him in a chorus of screams.

Finally, the first boy set off in a frantic effort to locate the supervisor. In the time it took for him to do so, a huddle of other boys gathered in the doorway, and they watched Mr. Will Potter die.

At home, Will Potter’s wife Merilee fixed a breakfast of bread and tea for herself and her two children. Then, since the drizzle had stopped, the three of them stepped out into their narrow back yard.

Celeste sat on an upside-down washbasin and began using a pencil stub to draw on coarse sheets of paper. She had the white complexion and bright blue eyes of the English, like her mum. She had her mum’s chestnut hair as well. Unlike her mum, however, or unlike anyone else she knew in her family, she suffered from a physical deformity. It was a birth defect that her parents had tried to overlook until she started walking, belatedly, at eighteen months. Her right leg was, and remained, two inches shorter than her left, giving her a pronounced limp and suggesting, inaccurately, that her left shoulder was set two inches higher than her right. That was why, in her one childhood photo, she lay posed as a china doll in a long dress, supine, with no legs or feet showing at all.

Her brother Jack, four years her senior, was hitting bits of clay with an old baseball bat brought home by his father—hitting them very far and very accurately—over the low stone wall and into the back alley. Jack had his father’s dark eyes and sharp widow’s peak of black hair, a look that inspired an irrational fear in some. His baby photo, to Merilee’s anguish, had been lost along with his birth and baptismal certificates in the move from their previous home in Trent Vale to their current home in Stoke, within the Catholic parish of St. Peter in Chains.

Merilee stood hanging shirts and pants on a line, despite the dampness and the soot in the air. She was a thin and pretty woman of thirty-nine years, with high cheekbones and carefully maintained hair. She worked at her domestic chore with an air of detachment, as if she were born to do better things.

Celeste turned to watch a cloud of smoke drift up the roadway from the tangle of pottery kilns below. The smoke rose slowly, enveloping house after house, spreading like a dark rumor. Merilee noticed her daughter’s intense gaze, followed it to the street, and froze. The cloud seemed to stop its rise right outside the Potters’ house. Then a large, hulking boy stepped out of the smoke. He walked down the narrow alley on the east side of the house and stood, looming, over the back wall.

He was Alfred Hulse, a boy from the Chapel Street works who sometimes hung around the children, and it was he who first delivered the terrible news. He did not see Merilee behind the billowing clothes, so he shouted over the wall to the children as if he were relating a football score, Your dad's been killed!

Merilee’s mouth fell open; then her hands dropped to her sides. Alfred saw her, changed his tone to respectful, and repeated, Mr. Will Potter’s been killed, ma’am. He added, Caught his arm in the steam engine and tore it up bad. Bled to death standing there.

Merilee uttered one horrified, indecipherable syllable, and ran into the house with Celeste hobbling behind her.

Alfred turned to Jack, whose back remained to him. Thou will have to get a job then, Jack. Eh? Maybe come to the works with me. Thy family will be needing the money.

Jack’s teeth clenched, and his knit brows furrowed, but he did not answer.

Annoyed, Alfred added, Don’t let them give thee your dad’s work britches, though. He pissed in them whilst standing there. I could see the stain when they carried him out. ‘Twas not a blood stain, not down there. ‘Twas a piss stain.

Jack started to smack the clay pellets over the back wall again, not looking up. Alfred tried, I think he might’ve cacked in them britches, too. It smelled like it. But maybe ‘twas just wind.

Jack ignored him still. Frustrated, Alfred finally kicked the wall with his boot and turned to go. Jack picked up a large chunk of clay, tossed it in the air, and swung his bat. Alfred yelped as the sharp rock stabbed him high on the left shoulder blade. With a muffled curse, he retraced his route back into the dark cloud.

Alfred Hulse’s visit was soon followed by a formal one from Mr. Charles Kincaid, the owner of the Chapel Street Pottery. He was accompanied by Father Willets, the pastor of St. Peter in Chains Catholic Church. Both expressed their condolences to Will Potter’s widow. They asked for and were granted entrance to the small house, where they took occupancy of two seats in the front parlor. Mr. Kincaid shifted uncomfortably, while Father Willets sat motionless. Merilee, still reeling from the shock of Alfred’s announcement, found herself staring at the priest and feeling a deep resentment over his presence in her home.

Merilee, although she had converted from Church of England to Roman Catholic to marry Will, was never a true believer in either church. Still, she had walked the children to Mass on Sunday mornings—standing, sitting, and kneeling as required. She had carried both children to the church to be baptized, clenching her teeth following Jack’s baptism when this very priest had remarked to Will, Be careful with this one. He has a dark glint in his eye. It don't come from the Lord, I can tell you that. It comes from the other place. As a result, when Celeste’s turn came, Merilee had wrapped her in such a way that the priest could not see her leg.

Mr. Kincaid spoke first. Mrs. Potter, I must say how shocked and dismayed we are over your husband’s tragic death.

Merilee gulped, Thank you, so quietly that neither man heard it.

Father Willets smiled sadly. Will was a good, church-going man. I was able to give him the last rites down at the works.

Merilee leaned against the doorway to steady herself. After a long silence, Father Willets cleared his throat and asked, Where will you go now, missus? Do you have people to take you in? When Merilee did not respond, he added, You know you can't live off the parish. Not without Will, and his income.

Merilee roused herself to say, I have no intention of living off the parish.

The priest nodded. He added, Perhaps I can find you a position with one of the parishioners.

Merilee pushed away from the door and enunciated clearly, I’ll be no one’s housemaid.

Father Willets lowered his eyes toward the floor. Mr. Kincaid inquired kindly, Did not your husband have people in Birmingham? That’s what his records indicate.

After taking a moment to calm herself, Merilee replied, People? He had one cousin there, a woman, but she and Will had no contact. She wouldn’t know me from Eve.

I see. Well, is there any way I can be of assistance?

Merilee swallowed hard. There may be. I worked when I was young, here in the Potteries, and I'll work again. So we will not starve. She added, No thanks to the parish. Father Willets did not react. Merilee continued, Where is my husband now?

Mr. Kincaid replied, Mr. Potter, following the last rites, was taken to Mr. Carstairs the undertaker, on High Street.

Can I see him?

Mr. Kincaid grimaced. It might be better if you let the undertaker do his work, ma’am. It was a bad business this morning.

What exactly happened?

It is too early to say, ma’am. But I am making inquiries.

Was my husband alone when it happened?

I believe so, yes.

Oh? Where was his supervisor? Where were the other early-morning workers?

That should all come out in my inquiries.

Father Willets raised his head and asked Kincaid, Will the wake be at Mrs. Yates’s house?

Yes. I’ll arrange to have Will’s body sent there today.

Merilee stole a glance into the kitchen where the children were standing. Celeste seemed bewildered and frightened, but Jack looked hard and angry. She said, All right. That’s settled then. We’ll all go to Mrs. Yates’s this evening.

The two men then stood, nodded somberly to Merilee, and exited the house. Merilee crooked a finger at the children. Jack, followed by Celeste, joined her in the parlor where she asked them, Do you understand what just happened to us?

Celeste remained bewildered, but Jack spoke up. We’ve lost Dad, and our house, and we’ll probably lose a lot more.

Merilee opened her mouth to contradict him but stopped herself. She stepped forward and put one arm around each child. She pulled them toward her, letting her head fall into the space between them. Then she whispered, That is right. This is a dark time. I’ll not call it anything else.

Jack whispered back, What can I do to help thee, Mum?

Merilee had no answer for him.

Poor people’s wakes were often held at Mrs. Yates’s home on Rectory Road. Since the death of Mr. Yates some twenty years before, his widow had supplemented her income by offering her large front parlor for waking members of St. Peter in Chains Parish.

Merilee arrived there with the children at six o’clock. The undertaker had cleaned Will Potter up as best he could—inserting his mangled arm into his jacket, replacing his soiled pants, and laying a copper coin on each of his eyes. The first thing Merilee did was to summon Mr. Carstairs and order him to remove the coins. She informed him, We do not believe in such superstitions.

Mr. Carstairs apologized deeply and set to the task. As he did so, Mr. Kincaid approached Merilee and expressed his condolences again. He pressed a sum of money into her hand, explaining, Here are Will’s last wages.

Merilee slid the money into her pocket without looking at it. She nodded to Mr. Kincaid; then she turned to face the small group of potters and their wives entering the home. She accepted their handshakes and best wishes with muffled Thank yous, while occasionally stealing a look back at her dead husband.

Will Potter was lying in a rough wooden box in the center of the parlor. Jack stood next to him wearing Will’s old woolen suit, the one Merilee had accidentally shrunk after they had first gotten married. Jack squirmed against the feel of the cravat around his neck, and with the weight of the wool on his shoulders. Celeste stood stock-still next to him, like a porcelain statue, in a blue gingham dress that Merilee had sewn.

At six-thirty, Father Willets appeared in the doorway. He walked to Will’s casket where he muttered a short prayer. Then he turned, opened a Bible, and began to read to the assembled: A reading from the book of Jeremiah. The potter was working at his wheel, but the jar he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so he crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over. Then the Lord gave me this message: ‘O Israel, can I not do to you as this potter has done to his clay? As the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand. I can crush you, and remake you, and you've got nothing to say about it.’

Celeste’s eyes remained downcast, but Jack’s dark eyes bored into the priest. He set his jaw and shook his head slowly, defiantly, to the left and right and back again, as if to negate those words.

The priest closed the book, made the sign of the cross over Will’s body, and intoned, Thus is the word of the Lord.

Several people muttered, Amen, and the service was concluded.

Mrs. Yates then carried out a tray of food, and another of drinks, for the guests.

Merilee declined to take the food, choosing instead to pick up a glass of brown whiskey. After drinking it down, and grimacing, she started to cry quietly. Then she started to talk, but not so quietly. He never missed a day of work, my Will. Not like some. Not like the ones that lie drunk at home when they should be on the job. My Will never did that. Not once.

She looked up to find a face who would listen to her. Mrs. Yates obliged, and she continued, He'd have his drinks at the pub, on a Saturday night. But he never missed work on Monday. Not like some.

Mrs. Yates reached out a kindly hand and touched Merilee on the shoulder. It was to comfort her, but it was also to silence her. A group of men, including George Grisby, the supervisor at Chapel Street, were now looking askance at them. Grisby’s pinched face and milky blue eyes radiated disapproval, and a touch of warning.

But Merilee, flushed with the whiskey, went on even louder. Will Potter was not some lump of clay, to be crushed and remade by some God. That's nonsense. Nonsense like putting coins on the eyes of the dead. God did not make me a widow, and my children fatherless, and homeless, for some higher reason. There's a reason Will died, but it’s not a higher one. There’s no mystery to it—the answer is right here, in this room.

George Grisby shifted his wiry body and pointed his whiskey glass at Mrs. Yates. Best get her outside, missus. He told Merilee, Best go with her, if knowst what’s good for thee.

Merilee met Grisby’s gaze. She asked him, I should leave my own husband's wake? Is that what you’re saying?

Mrs. Yates took hold of Merilee’s elbow. Just to get some air.

Merilee allowed herself to be turned, and she started outside. But as she motioned to Celeste and Jack to join her, she called back, And where were you, Mr. Grisby, when Will got caught in that machine? Were you there supervising, like you should have been? Or were you still at home, drunk?

Grisby made a dismissive gesture with the glass, intoning, Bah. Stupid woman, and turned away.

But the words had been spoken, and they could not be taken back. The men in the room exchanged questioning looks. Where, indeed, had the supervisor been?

Merilee stood with Mrs. Yates on the porch. They were soon joined by a short, chubby-faced woman, who murmured to Merilee, Don’t you let them men push you around, Dearie. She then added, Do you know who I am?

Merilee shook her head no.

I’m Dora Hulse. My husband and me ran the Cygnet Pub, in Swan Square, until he died. Now I run it alone, with my son Alfred.

Merilee conceded, Oh. Yes. I know that place. She added noncommittally, And I know Alfred.

Ah. Good.

Father Willets exited the house, followed by George Grisby. They stopped to listen as Dora Hulse continued, Alfred and me have our living quarters in the back, but we also got two rooms upstairs that have gone begging for a month now. Nothing fancy, but they can be yours for workman's wages.

Merilee shook her head and muttered, Thank you, no.

The priest took the opportunity to remind Merilee, Remember: You’ll have to be out of that house by the first of the month. It’s a parish-owned house. We are dependent on its income.

Grisby added coldly, Thou art lucky. This woman is extending thee Christian charity. Best take it and be gone.

Merilee snapped at him, You can keep out of my family’s business.

Grisby regarded Jack and Celeste. He snarled at Merilee, Family? Aye. And a fine one it is—a son with a devil’s eye, and a girl with a twisted limb. Ist not a sign from God, Father?

The priest conceded, It is.

Grisby continued, Thou art lucky, indeed. ‘Twas a time when the lot of thee would have been driven from this town, by a mob of people, as an abomination before God.

Merilee grabbed both children and pulled them close, as if to shield them from his words.

Mrs. Yates spoke up. That’s enough, Mr. Grisby! She turned to the priest, Are we not all equal in the eyes of God, Father?

The priest nodded curtly. Then he and Grisby left without another word.

Dora Hulse whispered, That George Grisby’s a right bastard, pardon my French. And that priest is no saint, either. She lowered her voice for dramatic effect, "He drinks more than wine at Sunday Mass. I can tell you that for sure because I’m the one that sells it to him. She took Merilee by the elbow. Do you have any other place to go at the first of the month?"

Merilee