Phoenix Woman

Last night she came to me again. I was running through fog towards the sound of smashing pots and sobbing.

Ahead, the woman with wings was floating forwards. She stopped and the sobbing grew so loud it seemed inside my brain. And in the instant before waking I understood that her cries were the sound not only of sorrow but also of anger . . .

“What’s that?” Matt leans over to peer at the sketchpad on my lap.

“Just doodling.”

It’s her, of course. I call her Phoenix Woman and I can’t seem to stop drawing her.

“It’s impressive. New commission?”

I raise mocking eyebrows. “Does this look like a souvenir from Southport?”

Matt chuckles.

“I suppose not.”

I toss my sketches aside and turn to continue stacking slogan-painted mugs ready for the kiln.

This is the summit of my artistic achievement now. Ever since my son’s father decided being a dad wasn’t really “his thing”. My work won’t end up in the Tate, but we have to eat and it keeps my kiln going.

“You should make up your own designs. You’ve got talent, Viola. You shouldn’t waste it.”

I look up at my neighbour who has been so supportive these past few months since he moved in. “Thanks.”

“I’ll help if I can.”

There it is again: the expression that tells me he’d like to be much more to me. But I’m not sure I’m ready.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.” Annie tucked coins into the leather purse tied around her waist and passed over a decorative plate. The market was busy; she’d sold well.

It was amazing how popular your pots could be when it was known the lady of the manor owned one. She’d visited Annie after Saul’s death at the Battle of Edgehill, early in the war.

“How will you support yourself now that your husband has fallen in the noble cause of His Majesty the King?” her ladyship had said, her gaze scanning the cottage and workshop.

“I suppose I shall just carry on, ma’am. I can pot as well as ever Saul could.”

“Indeed? And in such beautiful detail?”

“Begging your pardon, but it was me as did the fancy pots. My

Saul stuck to plain stuff.

Our bread and butter, he called it.”

“The feathers on these birds are exquisite.” Her ladyship had stroked the surface of a large charger.“so lifelike.”

“It’s done with a feather-tip, your ladyship. I draw it through the slip-clay when it’s wet.”

“Well, I shall buy this plate, Mistress Crane, and display it in my hallway, that all may know I support the families of those gallant men fallen in my husband’s forces.”

So it began. Knowledge that her pottery was patronised by her ladyship led to many of the newly wealthy families flocking to Annie’s workshop to commission their own pieces.

Although she still produced the plain pots for poor folk, Annie’s main output now was decorative ware. Plates to commemorate weddings; punch bowls for family celebrations; detailed clay cribs for new mothers.

Yes, the Civil War had been good to Annie, apart from losing Saul. But that hadn’t exactly been a love match.

“A good day, Mistress Crane?” William Morgan’s eyes twinkled in a way that made Annie’s heart hammer as Saul’s never had.

“Aye.” She swallowed foolish fluttering and flicked back her hair.

“We’ll be drinking mead tonight, then?”

“I will, aye,” she teased, and laughed as the cartwright’s handsome face fell.“you might join me if you mind your manners.”

Tonight she was in a garden but, blinded by morning sunlight, I could only stumble towards the sense of her. There was singing; the sound of hands in soft clay; laughter at an uplifting rush of sparrows against blue sky.

There was a man there, too. I felt a reassuring spirit. Happiness.

Then I wake, and tip-toe across to check on Teddy. My son slumbers with arms thrown overhead in trusting abandon; long lashes on cherub-peach cheeks. I resist the urge to touch. If I retreat I have two hours before he wakes.

My pencil moves fast in the kitchen. I sip coffee and stand back to look, realising I have

You should make up your own designs. You’ve got talent, Viola.

drawn a design for a decorative plate.

It’s been so long; I’m glad I still can.

Words are needed. Something to capture the hope; the energetic optimism of birds in the garden; a new day. Yes, that’s it.

Today Is A New Day. Teddy sleeps on so I decide to get a head start and stack the kiln.

It was a twenty-first birthday present from my parents, this kiln. They thought their daughter would become a successful ceramic artist.

I’d already gained a bit of a reputation. My work was different: fascinated by mediaeval slip-trailed pottery, I loved giving it my own modern take, experimenting with different enamels and glazes.

Then I met Teddy’s dad.

I’m not the first woman to abandon heart and head for love; I don’t suppose I’ll be the last. Teddy wasn’t planned, and before I knew it I was a struggling single parent with bills to pay.

I glance back at my bird sketch. I’m pleased with it. Perhaps I will make it up into a pot.

The war was lost. Charles I had surrendered to Cromwell and the perfidious Parliamentarians. People said he was in prison.

Nothing happened. The market still traded but people spoke in whispers, fearful of being overheard.

Annie sold her plain pots but customers came less and less to buy her decorated pieces. Just as the King awaited his fate, his people waited to see if there would be anything to celebrate. Or whether celebrations would be allowed.

“Come back to Wales with me,” William Morgan said.“the Welsh Church has little time for English puritans. We could live quietly there.”

“This is my home. I’ll not be chased out of it.”

“Wow. It’s like something in the Potteries Museum,” Matt says when he sees my bird plate.

Matt’s an accountant for a firm that handles the affairs of theatres, art galleries and museums. I smile.

“The Potteries Museum! I practically lived there when I was a student. I haven’t been for years.”

“Yes.” Matt is thoughtful.“this plate . . . the feathers.”

He strokes my bird’s ceramic back.

“There’s something about it. At the museum last time there was a plate that had just been brought in. The curator was really worked up about it – said it was by an early potter called, oh, I don’t remember.

“Anyway, the plate was signed. He said all the early work was, but there’s some mystery about her; she just disappeared. There is later similar work, but it’s not signed.”

“It was a woman?”

“Yes. The plate had feathers exactly like this. I wish I could remember her name.”

“Mistress Crane?”

The man had a square face and cold blue eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

He produced a phoenix plate of the kind customers had often bought to encourage family members after disappointments or bereavements.

“This item.” He looked as if he could barely bring himself to touch it.“this is your work?” Annie sighed.

“It is signed by me, sir.” “A woman with wings?” His tone was thunderous; the men at his side shuffled their feet.

“What is the meaning of such idolatry?”

Annie began to tremble. With effort she kept it from her voice. “May I enquire who is asking?” “Impertinent wench!” He drew himself up.“i have been appointed by the local Parliamentary Committee to administrate this district. It is my duty to rout out all perpetrators of ungodliness.” “Ungodliness?”

“Do you deny that your item depicts a godless idol?”

“It is a mythical beast, to be sure, sir, but no wickedness is intended. It is meant for encouragement – solace.”

“There is no solace but the Lord.”

He let the plate fall from his fingers; it smashed into fragments on the stone floor. He nodded to his soldiers, who spread out into the cottage and workshop.

Annie made to protest. “You, Mistress Crane, will sit while my men cleanse your home of idolatry and be grateful you are not arrested for the burning. Your fate has yet to be decided.”

Her head was filled with the sound of her work being smashed but Annie continued to stare at the ugly square face in tearless defiance.

Only when soldiers were gone did she surrender to sorrow, scrabbling at the broken fragments on the floor till her fingers were crimson with blood. So it was that William found her.“annie, Annie.” His arms rocked her like a child.“now will you come away with me to Wales? Please, my love – for next time they will surely take you to the stake.”

“Got it!” Matt’s face is triumphant.“annie Crane. This is the museum plate, see?”

I’m working, covered in clay. “Show me.”

He swivels his laptop. And there she is.

“It’s your Phoenix Woman,” Matt enthuses.“look at the inscription around the edge.”

“‘As The Phoenix, Ye Shall Rise.’ Isn’t that extraordinary?”

He’s as excited as Teddy when he shows me something and

I feel a sudden rush of love for this man who takes on my passions, who offers me endless friendship and support and has had the patience to wait while I creak open the hinges on my battered heart.

“I’ve researched her.” He’s talking like an express train. “She was a fountain of positivity. Look at her captions:‘today Is A New Day’;‘the Best Is Not Too Good For You’. You could make up some of your designs; I bet you’d sell lots. The museum shop charges a fortune for modern slipware and it’s nowhere near as good as yours.”

“Well . . .” I nod.

He grins and something flickers into life inside my chest.

“Oh, and I found this online: it turned up in a private collection in Washington. It’s a marriage plate dated 1650 for ‘AC and WM’. Do you think it’s her?” “Her style.”

“There’s later stuff that came from a pottery in Buckley in Wales but nothing’s signed. Some experts think it’s hers.”

It’s my first craft fair. The doors are open; my stomach flutters faster than any bird’s wing. People browse; some buy. I’m suddenly aware of a woman at my stall. She has long hair and striking blue eyes. There is a stillness about her.

“You work well.”

She strokes the feathers of Phoenix Woman with obvious fondness.

I have this most bizarre feeling.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She smiles.“i’m just visiting for the day from Wales.”

My doctor is referring me for tests for multiple sclerosis. At 31 aren’t I too young?

Multiple sclerosis usually develops between 30 and 50 years of age and is more common the further north you go. MS is a disorder of the brain and the spinal cord and is thought to be an autoimmune condition – the body attacks the sheath around nerve fibres, leading to patches of inflammation. This stops the nerve fibres from working properly.

Most people have relapsing remitting MS – a relapse of days to weeks with symptoms followed by remission, when the symptoms go away. Symptoms can be numbness or tingling, weakness or paralysis, problems with balance, visual symptoms, pain and fatigue.

Sufferers may start with relapsing remitting but, after 5-20 years, symptoms can become permanent. This is secondary progressive MS. But not everyone gets this. Some people suffer primary progressive where symptoms worsen from the outset. The other form is benign MS, with a few relapses and no permanent symptoms.

Diagnosis is usually by MRI scan or lumbar puncture, but may not be definite after a single episode of symptoms. There is no cure but a huge amount of research is ongoing and progress is being made. Treatments include steroids and immunomodulatory agents. Physiotherapy and psychological therapies are important too.

Is mumps an illness of the past?

No. We still see it regularly because uptake of the MMR (mumps, measles and rubella) vaccine fell when discredited research by Dr Andrew Wakefield erroneously linked the vaccine to autism. But people who have been vaccinated can still get mumps, but in a less serious form.

It is a contagious viral infection and the classic symptom is swelling of the parotid salivary glands in the side of the face just under the ears. Affecting adults and children, it can cause headaches, joint pain, high temperature, and affect the testes in boys. See the GP if you think you have it as the public health department should be informed. Diagnosis is by saliva test. There is no treatment but painkillers can help. But the best thing is to have children vaccinated.