Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  Proud Mary

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Copyright

  To Tudor and our family with love

  Chapter One

  Sweyn’s Eye lay soft and grey in the harsh early morning rain. Clouds moved over the silent hills towards the east where the copper works belched forth green smoke from a forest of chimneys that invaded the skies. The prison, stark and ugly, hugged the line of the shore, facing the heavy rolling seas with mute defiance. And the old gallows creaked mournfully in the wind.

  Mary Jenkins stood outside the heavy oak door, steadfastly gazing at the sodden wood and the huge iron hinges that guarded the prison entrance. Behind her clustered a group of bedraggled women waiting, as she was, to be admitted into the stern building.

  She bit her lip and tears blurred her vision, but she swallowed her pain, unwilling to make a display of her emotions. Standing tall, with head aloft and back iron-straight, she was unaware that her raw-boned elegance and the darkness of her heavy-lidded eyes set her apart from the other women. She only knew that she was lost and alone in an unfamiliar world. She wished herself away from the prison and safe within the welcoming warmth of the Canal Street Laundry, breathing in the scent of hot clean linen, checking sheets or issuing orders that she knew would be obeyed with good humour.

  There was a grumbling among the women behind her; they were weary of the rain that soaked through heavy woollen shawls, running in streams from black straw hats. She felt a momentary pity for them, but then she was one of them now – waiting as they were to visit menfolk imprisoned behind the forbidding walls.

  ‘There’s hoity-toity you are, Mary Jenkins.’ A voice thickened by gin hissed towards her with the venom of a snake.

  ‘Come down in the world now, ’aven’t you? No better than the rest of us and you standing there like you was a queen.’

  Mary ignored the sneers though her shoulders were tense, but the voice continued mercilessly.

  ‘Murderer, that’s what Billy Gray is! Shouldn’t wonder if they hang ’im by the neck until he’s dead.’

  Mary turned and stared angrily at the woman who was taunting her; she was a sorry sight, her face lined and yellow, her eyes anguished and Mary’s anger melted away.

  The old gallows swung in a gust of wind and Mary shuddered. Public hangings were no longer the custom in Sweyn’s Eye, but the gibbet that stood behind the prison walls was no less fearsome.

  ‘Oh, Billy!’ she whispered his name, her heart heavy with bitterness. He was no murderer and although she had not been allowed to speak to him since his arrest, she felt with a deep certainty that he would be able to explain everything if only he were given a chance.

  A silence had fallen on the women and Mary turned to see a man striding towards the prison gates. He was taller than she by several inches, his shoulders broad beneath the good serge of his topcoat.

  ‘Aren’t you Mary Jenkins?’ His voice was low and melodious, sounding foreign because of the American overtones.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ she asked flatly and he took her arm, propelling her forward, rapping on the prison door imperiously. ‘I feel a certain responsibility,’ he said and then shrugged. ‘Never mind, I don’t suppose you’d understand.’

  A small section of the great door opened, creaking as though in protest. ‘Oh it’s you, Mr Sutton, sir.’ A grim-faced warder doffed his hat, stepping back a pace and Mary found herself within the yard. Wondering why she was allowing a stranger to manipulate her, she glanced up at him almost against her will and a tremor shuddered through her. He looked mysterious in the dim light, his eyes appeared turquoise and the breeze lifted dark curls from his brow. Then he smiled and it was as though the clouds had suddenly parted to reveal bright sunshine.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. Her voice was light, insubstantial and she hardly recognised it as her own.

  ‘Brandon Sutton.’ His reply was brief and to the point and Mary felt unnerved by his presence. She moved away from him, unaware of the silent warder waiting to lead them into the main prison building until the American took her arm firmly and drew her forward.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She forced herself to speak as she was hurried along the windswept yard towards a flight of steps.

  ‘The same as you, I guess. I wish to see Billy Gray.’

  ‘Why?’ The word came out hard and flat and Mary stared at Brandon Sutton, her chin lifted as though defying him to deny her an answer.

  ‘I’d like to question him,’ he replied lightly, but a narrowing of the turquoise eyes showed his displeasure at her abrupt question.

  ‘Go on ahead, sir,’ The warder spoke with gruff diffidence and Brandon nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Griffiths.’ He moved swiftly up the steps, leading Mary up the short flight and into a dingy hallway.

  ‘You’d best wait here; at least you’ll have some privacy.’

  Mary felt strangely bereft as Brandon Sutton vanished from sight and she was prevented from following him by the outstretched arm of the warder, his rugged face impassive.

  ‘Why am I being kept here?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘I have more right to see Billy Gray than that stranger, surely?’

  The warder looked at her without interest. ‘You will have to wait until you are called. This isn’t the Mackworth Arms, you know. Grateful to Mr Sutton, you should be; he brought you in out of the rain, didn’t he?’

  Mary swallowed her anger and seated herself on a bench, staring round the dingy walls unrelieved by even a single window. She clasped her hands together in her lap and looked down at her neatly polished boots, trying to quell the frustration and anger that flowed through her. She felt demeaned, as though she had become tainted by the very sight and smell of the prison. This was no place for her love, for her dear, gentle Billy.

  She closed her eyes, forcing her thoughts away from her surroundings. She wondered how the girls were faring at the laundry. Three long weeks she had been absent from work, for since Billy’s arrest she had been too worried to think of anything but him.

  She realised that the Canal Street Laundry could function perfectly well without her and that everything would run along on oiled wheels as usual. The checking would be done properly, the delivery rounds would be as regular as ever and Doris would still be hauling her scuttle full of coal to stoke the boilers – yet a tiny part of Mary hoped that she would be missed.

  She had been relieved and grateful when Mali Richardson, owner of the laundry, had advised her to take some time off work and had grasped the opportunity with both hands, knowing that Billy would need all the support she could give him. Not that she had done very much in that direction so far, except try to cheer his
Aunt Agnes with false optimism and to find young Rhian a job in the packing room. Billy’s sister had taken the position with the utmost reluctance; irritated rather than pleased at Mary’s intervention, she made it quite clear that there was no love lost between them.

  Mary brushed the disquieting thoughts aside and gave herself up to reminiscing about the happy and satisfying years she had spent at the laundry. She could picture Mali Richardson as she had first seen her, Mali Llewelyn as she was then: small and white-faced, a girl who had arrived at work with an anxious frown creasing her high, intelligent forehead.

  Mali had been given the task of stoking the boilers, a challenge she had accepted with more courage than skill. And over the years she had shown great strength of character. It had been no surprise to Mary to see Mali eventually rise to a high position in the company, for she had streamlined and reorganised the laundry with great insight and when Mr Waddington (the previous owner) had died it had been Mali who had taken over the business.

  Mali had been with child when she had married Sterling Richardson, the copper boss, and the event had caused a sensation in the town. Many had predicted the early downfall of such an alliance, yet the glow that these days shone from Mali’s green eyes proved beyond all doubt that she had taken the right course and was happy. That the role of wife and mother suited her was beyond question.

  Mary got to her feet abruptly, her hands twisted nervously together. At twenty-seven years of age, she knew that she was well past the time when she should have a brood of her own babies hanging round her skirts. She loved Billy Gray, of course she did, hadn’t she known him since they both were little more than infants themselves? Yet she had shrunk from him whenever he had become too passionate, feeling a strange reluctance to give herself completely. Perhaps she needed to keep the independence she had fought so hard to gain.

  She shivered. Her first home had been a hovel, her earliest memories sleeping with her baby brother on stained matting alongside a sick father and a drunken mother. She brushed the thoughts aside – the prison was affecting her badly, for she had not dwelt on the privations of her childhood in years.

  The door at the end of the hallway opened suddenly and Mary turned to see Brandon Sutton re-emerge from the heart of the prison. He glanced neither right nor left and seemed not to notice her.

  Mary trembled as he walked past her; he was magnificent, his broad shoulders proudly held, his back straight, his movements lithe like those of a powerful animal.

  ‘Mary Jenkins,’ Griffiths loud voice broke harshly into her thoughts, ‘you can go in now.’

  Trying to gather her wits together, she blinked rapidly and stared at the hard-faced warder, forcing down the sudden wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. She realised suddenly that she was afraid to see Billy again – how, she wondered, had the trial affected him?

  She took a deep breath and moved forward and it was as though she had entered an underworld, a place of darkness where the sun could not penetrate. The coldness of the room struck her forcibly and then she dimly perceived the figure sitting at a table in the corner overshadowed by two uniformed men.

  ‘Billy?’ Mary’s voice came out slowly, her tongue seemed suddenly to fill her mouth as she stumbled forward and sat opposite him, her heart drumming painfully within her. She was separated from him by the long stretch of wooden table and the invisible barrier of authority erected by Griffiths, who took up a stance at the door alongside another warder, arms folded uncompromisingly across his chest.

  ‘Mary, you shouldn’t have come, I didn’t want you to see me like this.’ Billy’s head was sunk low on his chest and as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she drew in a sharp hissing breath. His hair had been shaved almost to the bone, he had become thinner and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. A sudden anger filled Mary and, oblivious to the men standing guard, she reached out her hand and grasped Billy’s cold fingers.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked urgently. ‘Tell me if you are being treated bad, boyo, and I’ll do something about it.’

  His heavy sigh seemed like the last gasp of a dying man. ‘Don’t go making a fuss now, girl,’ he said at last. ‘They are treating me proper, just like they’d treat any other man accused of murder; don’t ask soft questions.’

  ‘But Billy, you’re not to blame, I know you well enough to understand that much.’

  A thin smile appeared on his face and for a moment Mary glimpsed the old Billy Gray.

  ‘Come on love, tell me all about it,’ she said softly. She jerked her head in the direction of the warders. ‘Never mind them, what they think now doesn’t make any difference, does it?’

  Billy shook his head as though in bewilderment. ‘Look, Mary girl, I don’t know what happened and that’s God’s truth. Like I said at the trial, I just heard someone running about outside the house.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘That night when it happened, I heard this sound by the back door, soft it was like the rustling of footsteps. As groom to Dean Sutton, I thought it only right to find out if anything was going on.’

  Mary’s heart ached for Billy as she sat in silence waiting for him to continue. He shook his head. ‘Oh, I suppose I should have minded my own business, but I didn’t and that’s where I went wrong.’ He looked at her almost pleadingly. ‘I went outside in all innocence like and I wish to God I’d stayed indoors; I wouldn’t be in this mess then.’

  For a moment his voice quivered and Mary felt a knot of protectiveness heavy within her. She longed to take Billy in her arms and cradle his head on her breast, but that was the act of a mother, not a woman in love with a man.

  ‘Go on Billy,’ she said softly, ‘I’m listening.’ She squeezed his fingers, ignoring the pointed look given her by one of the warders.

  ‘I saw the face of the older man, Twm Price-Nightwatchman it was. I shouted to him, asked why he was snooping around in the dead of night; then his son Gerwin was on me, threw me to the ground – didn’t recognise me in the dark, I don’t suppose. I got up in a fine rage, bellowing like a wounded bull I remember and Gerwin ran for it. Twm made off like mad towards the old quarry. I shouted to him to take care, but it was no use; in a blind panic, he was. Went straight over the edge and to my dying day I’ll never forget his scream.’ Billy’s shoulders sagged. ‘I didn’t push him, whatever the men in wigs said.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’ Mary’s voice wavered as Billy’s beseeching eyes met hers.

  ‘There was money in my pocket, see, that’s what went against me.’ Billy’s voice shook. ‘Said I stole it and the notes were from Brandon Sutton’s safe. Planted on me, they were. Must have been, there’s no other explanation.’

  Billy looked down at his clenched fists. ‘He’s been to see me, asking me about some book and did I have pages out of it.’ He shrugged. ‘What would I want with such things?’

  ‘Why, the mean hypocrite!’ Mary bit her lip, her thoughts in a turmoil. So that’s what Brandon Sutton meant by feeling responsible.

  ‘Never mind him,’ Billy was saying. ‘Look after yourself, Mary, and try to do your best for Rhian too while I’m in here,’ he said earnestly. ‘She’s a headstrong girl, I know, and needs a firm hand to keep her steady, but she’s true and honest for all that.’

  Mary tried to marshal her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry your head about your sister,’ she attempted to smile reassuringly. ‘I’ve already found her a position, a packer in the laundry. It’s nice clean work and steady pay at the end of the week. She’ll be set up for life there if she puts her back into the job.’

  Billy’s eyes glowed with gratitude and Mary felt tears sting her eyes. He was like a whipped dog, with all the life gone out of him. He had always been cheerful and good-natured, a big man with a fine head of hair and a smile that would set any girl’s heart alight, but now the fire seemed to have gone from his belly.

  Griffiths’ harsh voice broke into Mary’s thoughts. ‘You, Mary Jenkins – shift your backside, time’s up.’ She rose to her f
eet at once, her hands clenched at her sides, her colour high.

  ‘There’s no need for such vulgarity, mind,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m not some floosie in off the streets.’

  The warder’s pale eyes narrowed as he stared at Mary. He appeared bewildered by her outburst and for a moment it seemed he might apologise; then he flushed a dull red and ran his finger around the stiff collar of his shirt as though it had suddenly become too tight for him.

  ‘Back to the cells, scum!’ He caught Billy by the scruff of the neck and shook him like a dog with a bone. Billy offered no resistance, though his humiliation was clear to see in the sudden pallor of his face.

  Mary gasped in outrage but before she could speak again, Griffiths had lashed out at Billy’s ankles with a heavily booted foot.

  ‘Your woman doesn’t understand how we work things here, boyo, it might be good for your health if you told her to mind her lip. Go on, I’m waiting.’

  Billy stared at Mary as though begging her forgiveness. ‘Just shut your mouth, girl, and go on home.’ She watched as he was dragged unceremoniously from the room, almost crying in impotent rage.

  ‘Best go, girl.’ The younger warder appeared to have more compassion than Griffiths. ‘It’s no good to kick against the pricks, don’t the good book tell you that?’ Mary moved out of the room and along the hallway into the yard where splashes of sunshine had broken through the clouds. She felt as though she was leaving behind her some sickening nightmare and returning to normality once more. Griffiths appeared behind her, a grin on his broad face. ‘See, I’m the boss here, girl, got a lot of pull I have, so why not be civil to me?’ He rested a moist hand on her shoulder and she pushed him away angrily.

  ‘I want to see the governor.’ Her voice trembled and the warder shook his head almost pityingly.

  ‘Don’t learn very fast, do you?’

  ‘I mean to see the governor,’ Mary repeated, though her knees were trembling and she had never been less sure of herself in all her life.

  ‘Well, you can’t see him, Mary Jenkins! Not now or ever and don’t show your face back at this prison because you won’t be allowed past the gate.’ Griffiths smirked. ‘Knew your mam and dad, I did. Bad blood they had, both of them, so don’t go puttin’ on airs and graces with me, my girl. Now get out.’