The Diamond House Read online

  “I admire a brick house,” he said, not seeming to care about skillets or shoes (which was good, since the ones on her feet were such a disaster) and instead studying, even running his hands over, the red-brick exterior of the house. He said, “Built well, built to last,” and paused, his hand still on the bricks. He seemed to be thinking. “There is a need for quality in the West,” he finally said. “Higgledy-piggledy. That’s the way the West is being built. Clapboard shacks everywhere you look. They ship the lumber by train, you know. A necessity. There’s barely a tree to be found. A bit of shrub, yes, but no trees as we know them.”

  “No trees?” she said, not sure where the conversation was going but willing to wait for more clues. “Is it so?” It was hard to imagine a place without trees.

  At that very moment a flash of lightning was followed by a loud crack that could be nothing other than an oak tree splitting, although not within their immediate field of vision.

  “Well, then,” she said, “you don’t have to worry about lightning striking them.”

  “Not the trees, no,” he said, “but it’s a still a concern when you’re as tall as I am,” which she thought was a funny thing to say, as though a man could be split down the middle by lightning.

  He asked, “Do you like it here in Byrne Corners? Now that you’ve settled in? Aside from the dearth of decent shoes?”

  So he had been listening. “It’ll do,” she said, “but I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve settled in. I have a bit of a wandering spirit.” She didn’t know why she’d said such a thing that echoed the rumours she’d heard about him. It had just slipped out.

  “Do you, now?” he said. “I have myself. In fact, my train leaves tomorrow for the West.”

  She was unreasonably disappointed to hear this. Why had he bothered, she thought, if he was leaving the next day?

  But then he said, “May I write to you?” and the disappointment faded and she felt just a bit of a quickening heart, even as she said, “As you like. I hope you write an entertaining letter, for I’m easily bored.”

  “I will do my best, Miss Passmore,” he said, and then he lifted his umbrella again and stepped back out into the weather.

  Salina opened the heavy oak door and went inside. She could hear the wind slapping rain in sheets up against the house. Through the lead-paned window in the door she watched Oliver Diamond walk away down High Street. The factory whistle blew just then. It was a sound she had grown used to, blowing as it did like clockwork to signal the shift changes, but she thought she detected irritation in the way Oliver first looked toward the sound and then turned away from it, and held his umbrella tilted, like a shield between himself and the factory. As he did so, the wind caught it and flipped it inside out, and she saw him struggle for a moment to right it before tossing it over a fence and walking on, head high, to be soaked once again in the downpour.

  Salina realized that she was as cold as if she had just got out of an ice bath, and she slipped off her ruined shoes and moved into the foyer, Oliver Diamond being almost out of sight now anyway. She caught her own image in the mirror there and was horrified at her dishevelled appearance. As she walked toward the staircase and the upstairs bedrooms with a plan to repair herself, the hem of her dress trailed across the hardwood floor, leaving mud in her wake. By the time her family arrived home an hour later, she had thrown her footwear in the trash and changed into a fresh frock and the blue shoes. She was not expecting to see Oliver Diamond again that day, but she’d made herself attractive anyway. She felt like somewhat of a new person.

  “You disappeared,” her mother said, her eyes following the trail of mud that Salina had neglected to clean up. “I thought you might lend a hand at the church hall. I had to ask Beatrice Shaughnessy, who was most obliging. Lovely girl.”

  “Oh, I shan’t give her another thought,” Salina said.

  It was not at all clear what she meant. She herself did not know, because her mind was elsewhere.

  THE FIRST LETTER arrived ten days later, on the very day Salina’s white teapot was removed from a backyard kiln. Salina read the letter as she walked to Mrs. Morris’s for the unbricking, wearing her pottery apron over her skirt and blouse. Normally, she would have arrived early in anticipation of the magic wrought by the firing, but today she walked slowly, intently reading her letter several times over, and when she arrived at Mrs. Morris’s gate she saw that Ruthie Granger was there watching for her.

  “Salina, for heaven’s sake,” Ruthie said. “We’ve all been waiting. Are you not dying of excitement?”

  At first, Salina thought Ruthie was referring to her letter, which she quickly folded and slipped back into one of her apron’s many pockets. Then she realized that Ruthie meant the oven, which had been fired on the weekend by one of Mr. Morris’s men from the factory. It had been a final gloss firing, which was Mrs. Morris’s favourite because she fancied herself a freehand paintresse and the gloss revealed her talent at depicting roses and vines and daisies. Her canvas was generally the most basic of shapes, a humble dish or perhaps an ashtray, in Salina’s opinion the least ambitious of all the shapes possible, although she wasn’t about to say so out loud because Mrs. Morris owned the oven and the shed in which the club worked.

  “Quickly,” Ruthie said. “Mrs. M. is beside herself with excitement. She thinks she’s about to find her masterpiece in the oven.”

  With the letter safely in her apron pocket, Salina tried to recover from the daze in which she found herself—Could it be love, already?—and she turned into the Morrises’ yard and followed Ruthie along the side of the house to the back garden, where the others were waiting.

  “Finally, then,” Mrs. Morris said, not hiding her irritation that Salina was, what was it, seven minutes late?

  Ruthie gave her a little commiserative poke in the side. She was the only one of the eight ladies in the club who would dare speak anything remotely like a criticism of their leader, although she would do so only within Salina’s hearing. In front of the others, especially Mrs. Morris, butter wouldn’t melt, but Salina was happy to have at least a weak and uncommitted compatriot.

  The ladies were gathered in front of the oven—more properly called a kiln, but they preferred the less technical term—that Mr. Morris had built at the back of the garden. It stood, fully bricked, like an altar at which they were about to worship.

  “Who wants to do the honours now that we are all here?” Mrs. Morris asked.

  “Of course that should be you, Mrs. Morris,” Salina said, joining the group, trying to redeem herself, and the ladies all nodded, not a word of dissent among them, since they all knew whose property they were on and whose husband allowed such a thing as a pottery oven in the garden.

  The firebrick kiln was under a wooden shelter next to the work shed. It was a small kiln with room for just four shelves, stacked one above the other, and a firebox underneath and chimney behind. The size of the kiln placed a limit on the ladies’ aspirations, but they were all glad to have any kiln at all at their disposal. Their little club was quite a novelty in town, and considered to be a daring departure from embroidery or watercolour painting. Salina had been invited to join more because of her father’s position at the bank than for her artistic talent, which she considered to be quite a bit more obvious than Mrs. Morris’s, although that was another opinion she wisely kept to herself.

  On this day, a long table had been set up on the lawn to await the unloading, and the ladies formed an assembly line between it and the oven. Once they were organized, Mrs. Morris removed a brick from the oven door and held it up. The ladies clapped, as was expected, and Mrs. Morris made a great show of setting the all-important first brick on a waiting pallet. Then she preceded to remove the bricks in the door until the kiln was sufficiently open for the ladies to peer inside from their various vantage points in the line and see the first hints of the transformations that had occurred inside. Oohs and aahs were briefly allowed by Mrs. Morris until she recommenced the removal of the bri
cks, continuing this time until the door was completely open and the bricks were stacked neatly on the pallet.

  “How is the firing cone?” asked Mrs. Dorinstall—trying too hard, Salina thought, to sound like someone in the know.

  Mrs. Morris once again made a ceremony of the process by removing the clay cone meant to melt at the right temperature and signal Mr. Morris’s man to stop stoking the firebox and let the oven cool. She held it up for all to see—it had slumped perfectly—and the ladies clapped once again.

  Salina thought Mrs. Morris was dragging things out a little too much for dramatic effect, but she finally reached into the kiln and removed the first pot, Mrs. McPhail’s small vase with a ring of painted roses spiralling up the side. The ladies complimented the artist as it was passed along the line and set on the waiting table, although Mrs. McPhail expressed her disappointment that she had not managed to distribute the pink colour evenly and the green of the stem had all but disappeared. Salina wondered if the problem might be an uneven firing temperature rather than the quality of the painting, but this was something else that could not be said out loud, as it implied a flaw in Mrs. Morris’s kiln.

  “It’s quite lovely as it is,” Ruthie said to Mrs. McPhail, always one to give encouragement.

  One by one the pots were removed and the shelves stacked beside the kiln. The stilts that held the wares were dropped in a basket, and the ladies determined that the firing appeared to have been a great success. Mr. Morris’s man, they agreed, was getting very good at his job on the side.

  They were down to the last few items and Salina awaited the removal of her teapot, the only piece she’d been able to finish for the firing since it had been so difficult to get the various parts made and trimmed and properly attached. Mrs. Morris was taking her time, admiring her own pots as she came across them, until at long last the teapot came out, followed by its lid, and Salina finally had her creation in her hands. She did not remember it being so large and heavy, but still, it was an accomplishment.

  “A teapot is a real challenge,” Ruthie said. “You should be proud.”

  “It is, isn’t it,” she replied, momentarily forgetting the rule of modesty for all but Mrs. Morris. She ran her hands over the warm, white surface, the gently curving spout, the handle she had worked so hard at in order to get the balance right and prevent the pot from tipping too far forward when it was held. She set the lid on and was not even disappointed that a glaze drip prevented a perfect fit, and then she set the pot on the table with the others, and she thought it really was the standout piece. The decorating was subtle, with just a single green leaf painted under the spout and another smaller one next to the handle. She was less interested in painting and the others were better at it, but there was no one in the group who had ever used the potter’s wheel to make a teapot with any degree of success.

  “It’s very plain, isn’t it,” Mrs. Morris said. “Is that what you wanted? But let’s save our comments for our discussion, shall we? For now, let’s all have a pat on the back for a job well done. Well done, ladies, don’t you think?”

  “Well done,” they all agreed, patting each other on the backs of their summer dresses with delicate hands and wedding-ringed fingers (all but Salina), admiring their work, the still-warm glazed surfaces of dishes and bowls and vases, the painted flowers shining in the sun. It was alchemy, Salina thought, the many steps that turned simple earth into things of beauty, flawed things, but beautiful nonetheless. She admired the pots all lined up on the table, having emerged for the final time from the fire. There were flashes of ash from the firebox, but these too she loved for the way you could not control them. She felt a sense of goodwill, even toward Mrs. Morris, who was, she had to admit, a competent paintresse in spite of her lack of imagination and her superior nature.

  The tea and cakes came out next. Mrs. Morris had a gazebo, well-furnished for her frequent summer luncheons, and the ladies seated themselves for their discussion. It had been Mrs. Dorinstall’s turn to bring the cake, and she didn’t disappoint with a coffee cake topped with nuts and berries. Each lady chose the best of her clay pieces for what they called their “criticism,” which was just, in Salina’s opinion, congratulating each other and involved no thoughtful criticism at all, since that would be impolite (excepting Mrs. Morris’s carte blanche remarks). When it was Ruthie’s turn to hold up her piece—a bowl with a pink blob painted just beneath the lip, which Salina knew was an attempt at a peony—Salina felt she could say something at least a little bit constructive because it was Ruthie, and she said, “It was a very difficult subject, Ruthie, the most difficult of any, I would think. Good on you for choosing something so tricky. You could study the Japanese paintings if you wanted to improve your brushwork.”

  The ladies were silent, even Ruthie.

  “I didn’t mean that to sound harsh,” Salina said. “We all want to improve, do we not? And you can’t improve without taking risks. I say bravo to Ruthie.”

  “Thank you, Salina,” Ruthie finally said. “I think you’re probably right.”

  “It’s very pretty,” one of the other ladies said. “I don’t think there is any way you could improve it. It’s quite perfect.”

  Salina felt goodwill dissipating and she thought, Oh for God’s sake, the peony is barely recognizable as a peony, and besides, is anything ever perfect? But she said nothing further, having been reminded that criticism didn’t really mean criticism, unless it came from Mrs. Morris and then you could be certain.

  When it was Salina’s turn to hold up her teapot, Mrs. Morris repeated her point that it was a bit plain, and Salina herself said that it was heavier than it ought to be, and perhaps she should have worked harder to smooth out the throwing lines. She waited for congratulations on the shape of her teapot but none came. She tried to remain humble, but she had expected someone to acknowledge that a teapot was not easy to make. At least one person might think to recognize that, especially when they were all so free with their flattery.

  No one praised the teapot other than Ruthie, who said it had character, and finally another lady filled the silence by saying, “Has anyone ever owned a teapot that poured properly?” Salina was tempted to fill her teapot with water right then and there and show them that it poured perfectly, but she set the pot under her chair and said, “Thank you very much, ladies. How lucky we are to have this group. And Mrs. Morris’s pottery shed, of course.”

  The criticism moved on to the next person while Salina seethed. By the time the discussion got to Mrs. Morris, who for some reason always went last, Salina was ready to abandon caution and say what she really thought, even though she knew this would not be wise. Mrs. Morris held up her finest ashtray, and when it was Salina’s turn to speak, she said, with much restraint, “You are becoming an accomplished paintresse, Mrs. Morris. I think you should be quite proud of your ashtray. It’s so very plain, and plain is harder than it looks, is it not?” Mrs. Morris scrutinized her with eyes narrowed and didn’t say anything in reply. Ladies squirmed in their seats. Salina took a defiant bite of cake, but then she choked on it and Ruthie had to pound her on the back. It was unladylike, but it served to divert attention from Mrs. Morris’s palpable disapproval of Salina’s touché.

  When the tea was finished (having been brewed in the Royal Doulton Geneva teapot Mrs. Morris had received as a wedding gift some years previous) and they had been around the circle with their discussion, they packed up their pots and the meeting was over. Salina had brought nothing with her to pack her teapot in, so she carried it home in her hands, carefully, and on the way she passed a child, a little boy, who asked her if she had just bought it at the drugstore (which belonged to Salina’s brother-in-law, and was where you bought things like Wedgwood and Royal Doulton in Byrne Corners), and Salina told him that she had made it herself and he called it beautiful. Booty-full, he pronounced it, and she said, “Thank you very much, you sweet boy,” and in her head she agreed with him. At least someone had said it out loud, she thought,
although he did throw a spruce cone at the back of her head when she was walking away from him. If it hadn’t been for the teapot she would have chased him down and given him a talking-to.

  When she got home, she carried the teapot to her room and set it on her dresser where she could admire it. She had the room all to herself now that Roseanne was married off, and she was glad she did, so she could read once again her letter from Oliver Diamond. By the time she had read it another half dozen times (and had it practically memorized) the rancour she felt toward Mrs. Morris was gone and had been replaced by a glow that was new to her, and quite overpowering.

  She heard mother calling her, no doubt for help with supper, and she started down the stairs after locking her letter in her desk drawer, and then she decided to go back for the teapot. In the kitchen, her mother admired it and asked if it held water.

  “Of course it does,” Salina said. To prove her point, she gave it a good scrubbing and made the tea for supper in it. The pot was so big her mother’s tea cozy wouldn’t fit. When it came time to pour, Salina discovered that it dripped from the spout.

  “Never mind,” her mother said. “I believe they all do that. Has there ever been a teapot that doesn’t drip?”

  Salina was already examining the spout, trying to figure out where she had gone wrong.

  “Is anyone going to pass the meat?” her father asked, as though teapots were of no interest whatsoever to him. Even though, Salina thought, he was the one who claimed he could not live without the requisite amount of tea filling up his hollow legs.

  “By the way,” Salina’s mother said, “I hear you received a letter today.”

  It was infuriating, the way news travelled in this town. There was no doubt that her mother already knew who the letter was from.

  “It was nothing,” Salina said. “Just a bit of business.”

  “Business,” her mother said. “I doubt that.”