Firebird by Iris Gower Page B

experiment on a new porcelain body, he’s quite excited about it. If it works he’s going to produce it in large quantities, have the finest painters to decorate the pieces and sell the services to London, perhaps even to the king.’
    â€˜The king?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, as I said, my father is a very ambitious man.’ Llinos drew the cart to a halt. The market sprawled across the dirt track of a roadway, stalls set down on whatever spot took the vendor’s fancy.
    â€˜Well, here we are, then, Miss Savage. I trust you will sell all your pots and take home a nice little profit.’
    Llinos turned to him impulsively. ‘If you meant your offer to help then I accept. Won’t you stay with me, just for a while?’
    â€˜Why not? Let’s unload the pottery. Young man, you go and find us a good spot, somewhere we’ll be noticed.’
    They set up the baskets of stock between a woman in a hat and shawl selling cockles and an old man with a basket of vegetables.
    â€˜Morning, Miss Savage.’ The cockle woman lifted her hand. ‘Sorry to hear about your mother, good woman was Mrs Savage. Pity she took up with a bad lot the likes of that Mr Cimla, mind.’
    Llinos nodded. ‘Thank you for your condolences, Mrs Williams.’ She was aware she sounded distant but she did not want to talk about her mother, not to this woman whom she scarcely knew.
    The woman was not done. ‘Got yourself a helper though, I see, Eynon Morton-Edwards no less.’ Her eyes were bright with curiosity. She touched the brim of her black hat in a deferential gesture that was belied by the spiteful look in her eyes. Llinos wondered what the woman had against Eynon.
    Whatever it was, it didn’t bother Eynon. He held up one of the tall jugs, glazed with the brown and cream that was a mark of the pottery, and called out loudly, urging the crowd to buy one of the finest pots in Swansea.
    Llinos’s mouth curved into a smile; he had a nerve, he was obviously a gentleman and yet he made a sale almost at once as though he was born to barter in the market place.
    By midday, most of the stock was sold. ‘Want to go home or shall we stick it out?’ Eynon asked.
    â€˜Might as well sell the lot.’ Llinos smiled. ‘I’d better make the most of you while I’ve got you. When I’m on my own I won’t do half as well.’
    â€˜Very well, then, hang on here, I’ll go and get us something to eat. Are you hungry, lad?’ The boy’s eyes lit up at the prospect of food and the words of protest Llinos was about to say died on her lips.
    When he had gone, Llinos felt suddenly weary. Her feet ached and she sank onto a flat stone and wrapped her skirt around her legs.
    â€˜That boy is a strange one.’ Moriah Williams was packing; the baskets were empty except for a few cockles that clung to the weaving.
    â€˜He’s been good to me,’ Llinos said.
    â€˜Well, that posh school didn’t make much of a man of him, did it? All that painting and stuff, no occupation for a bright young fellow.’
    â€˜As I said, he’s been good to me.’ Llinos spoke icily; the woman nodded.
    â€˜ Chwarae teg , fair play, that’s all anyone can ask. Perhaps he’s not as bad as that father of his.’
    Eynon returned and Moriah Williams nodded to him before putting the large baskets over her arm and making her way through the crowd in the direction of the hills.
    Eynon had brought a fresh loaf and a piece of cheese and Llinos realized how hungry she was. She smiled, feeling better than she had done in weeks.
    â€˜I expect old Mrs Williams has been talking about me.’ Eynon began to eat hungrily. His teeth, Llinos noticed, were clean and white. She said nothing.
    â€˜I expect she’s told you I’m not a son my father can be proud of, I’m not strong and manly enough; that’s what everyone says. Well, I am different to him and I’m