Puzzle Jug, 1788-9

Ceramic by Hartley Greens and Co; Leeds Pottery Co.

This hideous jug still sits there on the mantel piece. I never did like it; never. He said he did, never said why though.

We were together over thirty years and he never did a days work around the house; never. Said that was woman's work and he worked hard all day. I suppose he did, maybe he did, but I had a job as well, granted it was part-time, then I had often to work overtime, had no choice about that. Anyway we needed the money.

This was the one thing he always noticed. If I moved it could he moan. I could move the settee or his favourite chair and he wouldn't notice; not a thing. Wouldn't say a word. But move this an inch, he'd complain; his big mouth was all I got. He'd moan and moan then I'd have to put the thing back just to shut him up.

Then he went and retired. That wasn't easy for me, he'd get under my feet all day, drove me mad he did. Wished he wasn't there and then he wasn't. Not much of a retirement for either of us.

I often joked, “When you're gone I'm chucking this out.” He's been gone two years now. But I still cannot bare to move it. I will soon, yes, I will soon.

Coastal Scene with Crab Catchers, about 1658

By Nicolaes Pietersz Berchem (1620 – 1683)

I often stand here, looking out, out over the misty bay at low tide. Watching the tall ships glide in, watching them risking the tall rocks and watching as they unloading their catch. Looking at the men scurrying along the shoreline, there movements hazy in the spray. I stand for hours watching these catchers. Waiting, waiting for nothing.

No one gives me a second look now, not these days, not now after all these years. I'm a usual fixture, best ignored, best forgotten. But a long ago, a long time ago I was the gayest girl around here. Everyone wanted me and I had the pick of the town.

It was all ruined by some boys fumbling one Saturday night. Hadn't a clue had I, how could I? Not a clue what he was up to down there. Fumbling away down there. Then it was all over. I wasn't sure what had happened. That Saturday after the fair, after he'd been drinking all day, after he'd caught me on the way home, after he'd told me he loved me. He seemed happy enough, at the time, tell the next day.

I was never that fond of him, not really, seemed nice enough, but there was always something about him, not right, not trustworthy. We had to marry, that's what they say around here. For the sake of the child, so they said, for the sake of his dirty doings. Our dirty doing they all said, as if I had a choice. The poor wretch was stillborn; I don't know if I was thankful or relieved. Whatever, I was now trapped in a loveless marriage. With him.

Ouse Bridge, about 1928

By Laetitia Marion Hamilton (1878 – 1964)

I was always waiting at my end of the bridge over this river. That's where we'd meet, Me and Alfred that is. We went out two or three times a week and he was always one for being late. Yet again, that night, he was late.

We'd been going together for almost three years then; it was three, I counted. So I was thinking we should move on in our relationship; you know, as you're supposed. Move on somewhere, not sure where, but move on. I had tried mentioning other boys, but, alas, nothing could provoke him into being jealous, not Alfred.

To try and force something out of him, that night, I was going to suggest a trial separation. Didn't like the idea, but I couldn't think of anything better, not when dealing with Alfred. If he did not respond then this was going nowhere. Better to move on and find someone else. I loved him, but you simply have to be practical.

When, at last, he arrived we went into a nearby pub, just along the waterfront, where we usually go. Just the few regulars in the room.

Later in the evening I managed to get the idea out; I suggested the separation. Having made my announcement we sat there in silence. He always did that when he didn't like something. Alfred just calmly drank his beer. He was never one to waste good beer. Then he got up and left; walked out just like that. It was then I started to cry, head in hands crying, others looking on, it was not the outcome I wanted.

Now, whenever I see this bridge, I wonder if I did the right thing. We never did see each other again.

The Volunteers, 1860

By Frederick Daniel Hardy (1826 – 1911)

See these children, take them, take them outside, strip them, strip them all. Then take them, drag them, to the open field with the canons prepared, lined up, ready. Shackle them to the barrels, make the ropes tight, their fate is preordained. There will be no entreaties, no pleas for mercy.

Call the drummer to strike up and to his beat light the fuses; one-by-one. Now watch their little bodies be blown to bits in a cloud of bloody smoke. All that will be left is their arms and legs, their blackened heads falling to the ground with a resounding thud. And the air filled with smoke, dust and a mist of blood; listen to the unholy echo, fading.

Of course I would not do this to these particular children, to my children, to these little darlings playing here. But I did it, not so long ago, to young men not that much older; men with brown skins and smelling foreign. Such an act might have been in the newspapers had it been performed in this country. But it was not; no such act is noteworthy when performed far away in India. Out of sight of civilisation and as revenge for a mutiny.

I remember long ago marching behind a similar drum as a child, dreaming of the intransigence of empire and of service to God and country; of the noble deed and valour in the face of the heathen. As we youngsters played the rest of the family gaily watching on; cheering. Later, of growing up, so quickly growing up, and that joyful moment of enlistment, and the tears when I first walked off, so proudly, to the railway station.

My father, here, standing behind me, was also a military man, but he never hinted at the miserable reality, not then in this our bright playroom. But I, also, am too ashamed to speak.

Still Life of Fruit, Flowers and a Bird's Nest on a Marble Ledge

By Jan Van Os (1744 – 1808)

You wouldn't think our little village show would engender such bitterness. But it does; so it does. You see, every year me and Myra would enter the floral competition down at the village hall. It's not much of a show, not much of a competition; and not much of a prize. Just some printed out certificate from the vicars PC and a supermarket gift voucher. I won't mention the name of the supermarket; it's something so down market, I never go there myself – though Myra did. I swear she, Myra that is, she was too friendly with the judges, there was something going on there, sure there was. She was like that; Myra that is. She had always been a bit too chummy with those on the parish council; there was gossip there was, don't take my word for it.

So this floral competition: for years now, she would get first prize and I would get second; like I said, she was too chummy with the judges. That's always niggled me. Just once in my life I'd like to be first. Then, this year, she passed away, didn't go to the funeral, wasn't invited. So I thought: my turn. At last my turn has come. So I pulled out all the stops. Spent weeks designing this; looks too much like an oil painting in this picture; but it was good, really good, even though I say so myself. And what happens? Third. Blooming third; those judges again.

I've been criticised for making my displays look too old fashioned. Well they are old fashioned; I'm getting on a bit now; so I am old fashioned in every possible way. What do they expect?

The judges complained that putting a doll in there looked a bit sinister. But I never thought of it that way. It was just my memory of my former rival; a little joke you see; Myra looking out from the grave; but they didn't like my little joke.

Look at her, this new winner she's behaving like some third rate Prima Donna. I can't be doing with that. And she ain't been in the village more than a year. She moved into Myra's old bungalow; some lawyer or something, it would be wouldn't it. And she's already well in with the parish council; well she would be. At least me and Myra had some dignity. We were always polite, didn't go lording it about over everyone. Look at her now; swanning about; it's a disgrace.

So Myra still beat me from beyond the grave. This is the last time for me. I doubt I'll see another year out. That's it for me; I'll die a looser.

Dovecot, 2007

Ceramic by Paul Young

We hardly speak now. Live in the same house, hear him snore every night, but he rarely says a word; not to me anyway. Now he's retired he spends most of his time out back; out there; out in his shed, horrible, draughty wooden thing it is. Out there he is, with his miserable birds; dam pidgins. I hate the things, mess all over the place; vermin I say; flying rats.

One time, I thought, I'd show an interest; you know, see what all fuss was about. Couples are supposed to have something to talk about; something to share. So I spotted this thing; down high street it was; little shop sells ornaments and bits; nice stuff but a but pricey for likes of us. Wasn't cheep; not cheep at all. Had to save up for it. Put a few pennies aside out of the bit of housekeeping he gives me. Anyway, weeks later popped in for it; snooty woman behind counter looked down on me like; but I'm as good as any one and I gets it. Pleased with myself I was.

See it's an ornamental dovecot, birds and everything. Wrapped it all up; all nice like; made a fuss of it. Only he laughed at me; laughs at me he did. There's a first time for everything, never heard him laugh since, never did it much before either.

I keep it here, right on top of the telly. Right here where he'll see it every night. Right when he's having his dinner. Just to annoy him. I can see he don't like it; it's not authentic enough; so I make sure he has to look at it.

He's out there now; with his birds; he talks to them.

Six Jugs, 2007

Ceramic by Philip Eglin

“Look what I've found,” said a boy excitedly to his brother. They had been digging in this disused quarry looking for fossils. That morning they had not found much. Until now.

“Look here's another one. Another jug,” said the brother, prodding the ground with some stick used as a makeshift spade.

“How many do you think there are?”

The brother shrugged and examined what he'd just ripped from the ground. “Do you think they're old? They look old.”

“If they're old we could be rich.”

“If mum's rich dad will have to come back.”

“Keep digging.”

Half a cup, please, 2006

Ceramic by Penelope Batley

“This is nice... lots of sugar, nice and sweet... just the way I like it, you know the way I like it... nice and sweet... nothing like a good cup of tea, that's what I always say... it's good we can let bygones be bygones... talk again... just like the old days... before the divorce and all that... now that wasn't a happy time for either of us... but lets not talk about that... surprised you phoned... even more surprised you wanted to see me... yeah, that did surprise me... nice here... never been here before... had a bit of trouble finding it... it's a bit out of the way... nice though... on the phone you said you're emigrating... that's nice, glad to see you're moving on... got to let go of the past sometime... me and... all right, I wont talk about her... you didn't say where you're going... surprised you wanted to talk, I can say... after what you said last time... still, that's all in the past... best forgotten... we can still be friends... I always said we could be friends... for the sake of the kids... they're grown up now... though Katie will still not talk to me... she'll come round in the end... you'll see... good we can sit here and chat... you're not saying much... it was always you that did the talking... we did have some good times, at the beginning anyway... I could do with another half cup, my throat still feels dry... you look a bit apprehensive... anything wrong... no need to cry... it'll be all right... mind you I feel a bit of indigestion coming on myself... must be something I ate...”

The Wave, 1898

By Roderick O'Conor (1860 – 1940)

I often come and look out there; to stand on this desolate embankment and look out over the sea; hoping to view The Wanderer on the horizon. A dim dot disappearing and revealing itself, growing larger, and yes it really is. But I know it will never happen, not after all this time. He's out there somewhere.

We were never happy, had to marry him. They said 'you'll have to pay for your fun,' but I never had any fun. Not up against the back wall; him drunk forceful.

Most of the time he was out there. But I paid the price when he came back, yes I paid the price.

He was jealous, for a long time I never knew what about. I never had any time to make him jealous, what with all the young'uns he forced on me. Nothing I did could please him, no nothing. So I decided to give him something to be jealous about. That's when I fell in love for the first time. Not some pretty lad for sure; he was older; set in his ways; and kind. The bast I was going to get.

I was going to divorce him when he came back. We were going to go somewhere, anywhere, away from the sea, start a new life, in a town. And there are not many who will take on another man's children.

But he never came back. The only time I wanted him back he never came back. What could I do? I was still married and no one will wait forever, not round here.

He's out there somewhere. He left me but I never got rid of him. It's too late now; all I can do is look out there.

The First, The Only One, 1859

By John William Haynes, active 1852 – 1882

Am I to end my days here in this little room. Not what I'm used to; but better than I deserve.

Our families had known each other for years and I got on well enough with George. We grew up; played together during the school holidays; at first he was like a brother. He looked well enough and everyone said I must be pleased with the prospect of such an auspicious match. But I sensed an anxiety and restlessness within him; I wondered - should I.

Despite little recompense of love our families expected us to marry and set great faith on our union. I did my duty; I did what I had to do to keep him. But it was all to no avail. It was far easier for him to escape the demands of society than I could ever have hoped for myself.

For months I had no idea I was in disgrace. The very sentiment filled me with fear. What could I do? I reached for all sorts of potions to try and save a yet more disgrace. But none were effective and only served to heighten my melancholy.

I had taken to wearing ever more extravagant dresses to hide my growing expanse. And had almost starved myself to try and deny my predicament. But when it was far too late there was no denying the unsightly truth.

Little was said; but looks could shame. It was then that I was sent here. To have the child out of the gaze of enquiring eyes. I blame my abstinence for a week and sickly darling. They don't expect it to have long to live. Society will have its revenge on me.

I cannot let myself get too attached to the little fellow. But I cannot help praying for its survival. All I can accomplish now is to watch with anxiety. I cry when they say it's for the best.

The consequence is I'm unlikely to ever have another child again. Something I have spent my whole life desiring and planning. It's the only task I have been brought up to accomplish. I'm damaged goods and no one will endure me.

So my life is forever over. I can see what beholds me, to die a sad spinster, passed from one resentful relation to another, ever dependent on their goodwill, ever looked on in unspoken shame. And never to speak of this pain again.

Many would, no doubt, condemn me if they knew the truth. But none could torment me more than I do myself.

Jean Abercromby, Mrs Morison of Haddo, about 1767

By Allan Ramsay (1713 – 1784)

Every morning I have to clean this room and light the fire. Everything has to be neat and tidy before they all come down in this big draughty house. Then my mistress runs me around all day, fetch this, get that. Even when you make an effort nothing is good enough for her. Never stops complaining.

That's her picture up there, up above the fireplace, looking down on me, looking down on everyone. As if it's checking up on everything I do. That's her picture allright, though she's a lot older now. Everyone says she's some great beauty, but I can't see it. Not as pretty as my sister. But I suppose they only say that because she has all that finery.

She sent my sister away. She used to clean this room, like me now. Accused her of stealing some silly trinket. Not that you could get away with taking anything around here. Those lot keep an eye on everything they've got. One little thing out of place and they fine you. Or you're out, no references.

Then they go and find it again. Her up there had mislaid it, taken it upstairs somewhere. I'm not allowed up there. Does she apologise? Does she bring my sister back? Of course not, they just carry on as if nothing had happened. They don't care about the likes of you and me. It's over there on that side table – horrible, ugly thing isn't it. Good mind to take it myself, get revenge. Only then my life wouldn't be worth living.

One day I'll get her up there back, you'll see. I can bide my time.

Portrait of a Man with a Book, about 1524

By Francesco Mazzola,
called Parmigianino (1503 – 1540)

I've searched everywhere for this legendary book. In all the great libraries of Rome, Athens and China. Whenever I could gain employment in the library of a noble house, I was there, offering my services.

Now I have stumbled across it here in this miserable place. In this rainy English market town, hidden in the unused library of a brainless aristocrat. Too stupid to understand the treasure he possessed.

At last in my hands The Secrets of Alchemy. The turning of base metal into gold. I shall possess great wealth beyond my dreams. All I have to do is escape with this treasure. They'll never notice it missing: most of the books here are left rotting.

It has cost me everything to find. I have lost my precious Parma estate with its wonderful orchards and fine wine. My beloved wife of noble birth and family. All my wealth and honour. And almost my very mind.

Now it is in my hands what is the secret? That wonderful secret of the ancients. Nothing. Nothing I have not already read a thousand times. Nothing that I have not tried and has proved a dismal failure. My whole life's work is over, it is in ruins.