‘I’ve left the laundry,’ she said bluntly. There was no other way to break the news to him. ‘Old Mr Sutton got my rag up and in the end I was forced to give him my resignation.’
Heath divested himself of his trousers and washed his body carefully, his back turned to Mary who was busy at the fireplace cooking bacon and eggs.
‘Tell me all about it, later,’ he invited. ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye, isn’t there, love?’
When he had rubbed himself dry, he ran lightly on bare feet up the stairs and Mary heard him moving about, opening drawers, and cupboards. She knew he would be out tomcatting again tonight and she shook her head and smiled. Yet she wondered that he found girls so ready and willing to lie with him, thinking ruefully that she must somehow be different. After all, she was not getting any younger. Only three more years to go and she would be thirty and she had never experienced a man’s love – never felt desire either until today. She pushed the thought away as Heath returned to the room.
‘Now then, what’s all this about leaving the laundry? You’d sooner cut off your right arm than pack in your job; I know you too well, Mary.’
‘It was either leave or keep working in the boiler house and do Doris out of her job. Mr Sutton has taken a dislike to me, that’s all there is to it.’
Heath paused, a forkful of bacon halfway to his mouth. ‘Am I hearing right? Is this my sister speaking? How can you give up so easily? Start a union like the men do and fight for your rights, girl!’
Mary smiled. ‘It’s nice to hear you calling me girl, though I’m fast becoming an old woman, you know.’
‘Rubbish! I don’t know what’s got into you lately. You never used to be self-pitying. Come on, stir yourself and show a bit of the spirit that got us out of that hovel and into a lovely house like this.’
Mary stared at her brother – he was almost repeating the words Brandon Sutton had said, only in a far more outspoken, brotherly way.
‘Mr Sutton, our boss, now,’ Heath continued almost as though he had read her thoughts, ‘he’s a man who’s all for the workers. Believes in fair play, he does, whatever the other owners might say. If you have faith in something, then you must fight for it, or don’t you think that any more, Mary?’
‘All these questions!’ Mary was aware that she sounded pettish but she could not help herself. ‘It’s a well-known fact that everyone knows what to do with a kicking cow except the one that’s milking it.’
She put out some bacon and eggs and set her plate on the table, but she had never felt less like eating in all her life. She toyed with her food, pushing the bacon around the plate aimlessly.
‘Be a suffragette,’ Heath said, smiling a little. ‘I don’t mean to say you must chain yourself to the railings or anything like that, but you could always go round the countryside campaigning for the rights of women workers.’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t want to do that. My dream is to open a shop where women can buy on tick and pay when the wages come in. I’d like to have enough money to help them through strikes too, keep the families of the men who are out, give them food and clothing until the men go back to work again. That would be a good way of beating the bosses, for it’s when the babbas are starving that the men give in.’
Heath pushed back his chair. ‘Well, there’s the money you’ve put away in the jar,’ he said. ‘That must come to a few guineas by now.’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, I’ll need that to pay the rent until I find another job again at least.’
Heath moved to the door. ‘I’d give you a bit more pay, mind, but Mr Sutton has just docked our wages.’ He stood in the doorway looking back at her for a moment, waiting for her to speak.
‘We’ll be all right, bachgen, for a time anyway.’ She knew that was what he wanted to hear. She rose to her feet and stood in the window, watching him stride down the road, loving him. And yet a sense of sadness lay heavily upon her. Perhaps she thought, she had been too fussy as a young girl. Had held her chastity as a precious gift to be offered only to one man. It did not seem to bother the girls who lay with Heath so readily that they were throwing away their virginity.
As she washed up the plates, a strange restlessness seized her. She should be writing her weekly letter to Billy, but she couldn’t bear to sit indoors. She would go and walk along the beach, stare up at the stars and try to sort out her muddled thoughts.
It was cool at the water’s edge, the waves lapped inky blue against a shadowy shore. The pier stretched outward like an arm pointed across the Channel and the lights of a ship coming in to port were waveringly reflected in the water.
Mary sighed and breathed in the salty air as though it was a balm. She felt the sand shift between her toes and, on an impulse, sat on the beach and kicked her feet free of the tightly laced shoes. She laughed as the breeze lifted her hair with loving fingers and then tossed it back across her eyes.
She felt like a child again and absurd tears rose to her eyes. She had never had time to be a child – old before her time she was, and now realised for the first time how much she had missed. She had never gone to Sunday school outings, run in the egg-and-spoon races or splashed shrieking and heedless into the cold of the sea. She had been too busy earning bread to put in her brother’s mouth. She wept for the child she had been and yet despised herself for her weakness.
But now she was a woman and Grenville Sutton threatened to rob her of all she had achieved. As for his son, well he had taken something far more precious – her belief in her love for Billy Gray. For now she knew herself to be a passionate woman and had woken as if from a long sleep. Brandon had bred in her a strong desire, but one that must remain for ever unfulfilled. She lay back in the sand and the tears that ran into her mouth were as salt as the ocean.
Chapter Eight
As Delmai Richardson entered the huge grim prison gates her heart was in her mouth and her hands trembled. On her arm hung a basket filled with gifts for the unfortunate men incarcerated behind high grey walls, donated by the Ladies’ Charity Guild. It was a duty that Delmai could not in all conscience avoid.
When Bea Sutton had given her the task, pleading sickness as a reason for not attending the prison herself, Delmai had readily agreed for Bea looked too ill to rise from her sickbed; she was painfully thin and so very pale that her eyes stood out like dark lamps in her gaunt flesh. But now the moment had come, Delmai felt the visit was less a recognition of her new status as a married woman than something of an unpleasant chore.
‘’Day to you, ma’am.’ The uniformed warder spoke ingratiatingly and Delmai dragged her thoughts back to the matter in hand.
‘Good morning, Officer Griffiths,’ she replied. He smiled down at her, but the cynical look in his eyes told Delmai he did not approve of gifts for the prisoners under his care.
‘I’d advise you not to linger here today, ma’am; the prisoners are affected by the hot weather, if you know what I mean?’
Delmai looked away from him, her colour rising; she did know what he meant, only too well.
She hurried through the yard and up the steps into the dim hallway. The cells were beyond and she shivered in the sudden cold. Quickly, she distributed cards containing needles, thread and spare buttons, cynically called ‘housewives’ by the prisoners who received them without enthusiasm.
Billy Gray was picking oakum, teasing the greasy cord between fingers that were rubbed raw. Something in the set of his head and the light in his eyes caught Delmai’s attention and she paused. She had heard the story of his arrest, of course, and had discussed with the other women the possibility of his innocence – and even if guilty, to be responsible for the death of another human being must be a dreadful burden.
‘Billy Gray, isn’t it? Mrs Sutton gave me something special for you.’ She held out a bag of apples and a soft woollen jacket and Billy took them without any sign of emotion.
‘Don’t you like them?’ Delmai asked curiously and Billy shrugged. ‘Doe
sn’t make any difference if I do, the warders will only take them away as soon as you’ve gone.’
‘But that’s awful!’ Delmai said softly. There was something in his air of hopeless acceptance that reminded her of herself. He was a handsome man with hair sprouting short and curly all over his head; his eyes were gentle, grey and shadowed as though he suffered a great deal in silence. She felt inexplicably drawn to him.
‘Can’t you complain to the governor?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘I know Mr Jones to be a fair-minded man.’
Billy looked into her face and shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t even get near him,’ he replied flatly. ‘All I’d get for my pains would be a kicking.’
‘Surely not!’ Delmai could not conceal her shock. And yet she believed this man, for his eyes met hers squarely with no sign of guilt and she could imagine him in other circumstances being full of life and laughter.
‘Come along, ma’am.’ Griffiths was at her shoulder and she saw the way he examined the woollen garment as though assessing its value. She smiled at Griffiths, hiding her dislike of him before turning to speak to Billy.
‘Take care of that waistcoat,’ she said clearly. ‘Mrs Sutton will be around to see you next week if her health has improved and she will want to know you’ve been wearing her gift.’
Griffiths looked as though he had swallowed a sour plum and, hiding a smile, Delmai made her way back through the courtyard towards the gate, a feeling of unexpected warmth rising within her.
Later as she sat in the garden listening to the calling of the birds in the trees that surrounded the house, she remembered Billy’s gentle eyes and subdued manner and felt inexplicably sad. The scent of roses was almost overpowering, but the garden was a sweet clean place and it was here that Delmai usually managed to find peace of mind.
She had come to seek privacy, for the house was always bustling with servants especially when, like today, preparations for the arrival of a visitor were in full flood.
Delmai could have sought privacy in her bedroom, but simply being there made her uneasy. Not since that first night when Rickie had virtually raped her had she wept, for tears did nothing but excite her husband. He turned to her often, as though determined to make her fulfil the role of wife and mother and the more he forced himself upon her, the more she hated him.
A gasp of apprehension caught in her throat for Rickie had appeared on the pathway, striding purposefully in her direction. It was too late to move away, for he had seen her and was lifting his hand in greeting. She tried to relax and smile but her face felt frozen and stiff and the beginning of a headache teased the edges of her mind.
‘How are you feeling today, Delmai?’ Rickie flung himself on the grass at her feet and stared up at her with a penetrating stare. Delmai wished she could tell him she was well and full with his child for then, she believed, he would leave her alone at nights.
She shrugged. ‘I’m all right, thank you.’ She saw the disappointment on his face and yet could find no twinge of pity within her.
‘I see I shall have to try harder with you.’ He spoke truculently, as though she had spited him. ‘Do you know something, Delmai? Even now there is a whore who has conceived of my child – should I divorce you and marry her instead?’
Delmai stared at him steadily. ‘A whore might tell the same story to a dozen men and have them all believing themselves stallions,’ she said coldly.
His face turned a dull red and he glared at her as though he would like to slap her. ‘Well, if I am disappointed in you yet again this month then we shall have to see what Bryn Thomas has to say,’ he retorted. He knew her fear of having their intimate business bandied about and he used that fear as a weapon in his armoury of barbs. Delmai lifted her head and looked him full in the face.
‘Your own prowess will be brought into question then, have you thought of that?’ She rose to her feet and returned to the house and as she walked away from him, she was gritting her teeth in anger and despair.
Inside the house it was cool and fragrant, bowls full of summer roses perfumed the rooms. Gwen bobbed a curtsey and smiled warmly.
‘Everything is ready for our guest, Miss Delmai,’ the maid said brightly. ‘Mr Glynmor should be pleased with the way you run your household.’
Delmai nodded, but she knew that her father would have only one matter on his mind, would ask the same question Rickie kept repeating – was she yet with child?
‘It all looks lovely, Gwen,’ she said softly. ‘Tell the other servants how pleased I am.’
In her room, she took off her gown and let it slip to the floor, staring hard at her reflection in the mirror. She wondered that her naked flesh still looked the same as before she had married Rickie Richardson. Except for a small bruise on her thigh where he had gripped her with too much enthusiasm, there was nothing in the milky white body to show the suffering she endured at her husband’s hands at nights.
‘Very lovely.’ Rickie had come into the bedroom silently; there was amusement in his voice and something else that made her blood run cold. Hastily she snatched up her underclothes and held her silk chemise against her breasts.
‘Such modesty.’ He came towards her and deliberately took the garment from her, dropping it slowly back onto the carpet.
‘Get on the bed,’ he said flatly and Delmai looked at him appealingly, her heart pounding like a caged bird trying to be free.
‘But there’s no time, I have to prepare…’ Her voice trailed away as he reached out and caught her arm.
As he drew her to the bed and pushed her unceremoniously against the pillows, her heartbeats quickened so that she could scarcely breathe.
‘Why don’t you go to your whore?’ she said in desperation.
He smiled as he began to undo his buttons and Delmai’s hopes of deterring her husband vanished. But she had to make one last desperate effort.
‘Rickie, my father will be here soon. You must let me get ready, we shall have plenty of time later on tonight.’
He knelt on the bed beside her and the sneer was still in his eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Delmai,’ he said softly, ‘this won’t take long.’
* * *
The evening was cool with the promise of rain and the curtains billowed softly against the windows. The long table gleamed with crystal glass and polished silver and Delmai sat beside her husband for all the world as if she was truly his beloved wife.
She watched her father push his plate away and toy with his brandy glass and she knew that the inquisition was about to begin.
‘Now my boy…’ He ignored Delmai and addressed his remarks to Rickie; she felt degraded, as though she was simply a chattel which was the way her father always made her feel. ‘Is there any sign of a child yet?’
Rickie lit a cigar and stared at his wife accusingly. ‘I’m doing my best in that direction, sir,’ he said evenly. ‘But I am beginning to wonder if my wife is barren.’
Delmai saw her father’s face redden. ‘A Glynmor, barren? Rubbish!’
Feeling like a bone between two dogs, she rose to her feet in a swift movement and stared at her father and her husband with fierce anger, wondering which one she hated the most. She suddenly thought of Billy Gray, held against his will behind the high walls of the prison; there was nothing he could do except endure his fate, but she had a free choice. Was she willing for this to be her way of life for evermore? Not if she could help it, she told herself firmly.
‘Enough!’ She spoke loudly, her voice echoing through the long room. Both men stared at her startled by her tone. ‘This is not a cattle market we are discussing but a marriage.’ She moved away from the table, noting with satisfaction that Rickie was for once at a loss for words. She stared at him defiantly.
‘I shall sleep in the spare room for the time being, but as soon as I find a suitable house, I shall move into it bag and baggage.’
She stared at her husband; his face was suddenly pale and she felt a savage sense of satisfaction. As with al
l bullies, she thought, he simply wilted when the opposition was strong. She lingered in the doorway, staring at him with burning eyes.
‘If you lay a finger on me again, I will kill you,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t think I’m not capable of it – ask my dear father there, he will tell you I can shoot as well as any man.’
A heavy silence fell over the dining room as Delmai swept out and hurried up the stairs. She took a pistol from the bottom of her trunk and weighed it in her hands almost lovingly. ‘I mean it,’ she said loud.
She rang the bell and Gwen came bustling into the room, her face flushed from hurrying. Delmai guessed that the servants had heard raised voices and were agog with curiosity.
‘Move my belongings into the room at the end of the corridor, please, Gwen,’ Delmai said firmly.
The maid scurried to do her bidding, her wide eyes asking questions she dared not utter aloud. Delmai followed her more slowly and sat on the bed kicking off her soft pumps, resting against the pillows, suddenly aware that she was filled with a sense of power.
How easy it had been to assert herself, she thought in satisfaction, and what could Rickie or her father do about it? Bluster and threats carried no weight, not when she had a pistol tucked away under her pillow. Just let her husband try to force his will on her again and he would see the business end of the firearm. Why, she asked herself, had she put up with her husband’s badgering and cruelty for so long?
She undressed and lay back in bed, her eyes closed. It was still daylight outside the window and the birds were singing in the trees. But Delmai was deep in thought, making a mental inventory of her property and wondering which house she could afford to run on the allowance she had been left from her grandmother’s estate.
There were two large imposing buildings high up on the hill, but both would need a considerable staff and she simply could not afford it. The house in Canal Street now, that might be suitable. On consideration it was her only option. True it was near to the laundry, but the house itself was large enough and comfortable, only a stone’s throw away from the sea.
Proud Mary Page 11