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larger Tawe Pottery that once belonged to Eynon Morton-Edwards but was now in the hands of a consortium of businessmen. Her own pottery, renamed since her father’s day, would never rival the Tawe Pottery for production but, as for quality, the Merino was equal to any in the country.
    The coach trip to town took her past the winding River Tawe, the rushing waters of which turned the wheel of the grinding house. The river was calm now in the dreaming sun but when winter came the waters could rise and rush, bringing chaos to the inhabitants of nearby houses.
    The streets of Swansea were busy with traffic; small carts vied with large carriages for space at the roadside. Llinos looked out unseeingly, waiting for the driver to take her to her destination. She reached into her bag and drew out the crisp folded letter. She had read it several times but still did not know why the manager wanted to see her.
    Llinos looked at the letter again but was still no wiser. One thing she was sure of however: she did not much like the abrupt tone of the request for her to call. But then the manager was new, young, eager to make a mark. She would reserve her judgement until she had spoken to him.
    Llinos wondered if she should have seen Joe first and asked him to go with her but decided it was up to her to conduct her business alone. When she did see Joe they had some serious talking to do. She had made every effort to get over the loss of their baby, but had he?
    She was kept waiting at the bank, something that would never have happened in the old days. She sat back in the uncomfortable chair, trying to relax, but with the thought of Joe’s strange behaviour pressing in on her it was impossible. She pushed the thought away, determined to occupy her mind with other things.
    Back at home, Lloyd would be at his lessons, his new art tutor struggling to teach him how to draw. Lloyd was impatient with the slow progress he was making, he preferred to be working with his hands, to fashion little figures and animals in wood, so realistic you felt they would bite if you got too close. He was a strange mixture, her son, practical like his grandfather and yet with something of Joe’s intuitive way of thinking.
    ‘Mrs Mainwaring, Mr Sparks will see you now.’ The clerk held the door open for her and Llinos walked into the office, impatient to get the business over with as quickly as possible. She suddenly felt the need to be back home in familiar surroundings. Perhaps she would not try to find Joe at the hotel after all. It might be much better to talk to him in the privacy of their own home.
    ‘Please sit down.’ Mr Sparks was younger even than Llinos had imagined. His hair was slicked down close to his head making his nose appear more prominent than it really was. He was not an attractive man.
    He flicked through some papers, keeping Llinos waiting. She was beginning to grow impatient; anyone would think she was here as a supplicant not as a successful businesswoman.
    ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Mr Sparks?’ she asked at last. ‘I am rather busy you know, I do have a business to run.’
    His head jerked up as though she had said something shocking. ‘I am aware that your time is precious but then so is mine.’ He sounded as aggrieved as he looked.
    ‘Well then, shall we get on with it?’ Llinos folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to gather his wits.
    ‘I would normally deal with Mr Mainwaring,’ he said, ‘but in the circumstances . . .’ He sighed and put the papers down, pressing out the creases with thin fingers.
    ‘What circumstances are those?’ Llinos was beginning to find the man offensive. She took a deep breath, trying to keep calm.
    ‘Well the man is a foreigner.’ Mr Sparks spoke abruptly and with such arrogance that Llinos wanted to hit him. Would people never accept Joe for what he was?
    ‘I can see you are prejudiced against anyone not born in this country,’ she said icily, ‘though I cannot