Mark kicked at a stone and it bounced into the river, sending ripples working outwards in ever widening circles.
‘All the same, I’d like to know who the songbird is, I’d teach him to be a bradwr to his workmates.’ Mark grinned as he saw Brandon’s eyebrows lift questioningly. ‘Traitor, I mean, sir. I always fall back into the Welsh when I’m angry!’
Brandon began to move along the bank towards the small bridge that joined the two sections of the Beaufort Works. ‘I’m going down to the press tonight, care to join me?’ He saw Mark smile sheepishly and correctly interpreted his expression.
‘I guess you’re going out courting? Katie must be a mighty fine girl.’
Mark nodded. ‘Aye, lovely she is, but she keeps hinting at a wedding ring and that frightens me to death.’
‘Don’t let any woman tie you down, Mark.’ Brandon stepped off the wooden planking of the bridge onto earth soft with rain and looked back at his manager. ‘The old saying that a man travels fastest alone is very true.’
Mark was silent for a moment and as Brandon watched the changing expressions on his face, he could hazard a guess at the conflict in the younger man’s mind. On the one hand the need for a woman was strong, yet Mark was level-headed enough to know that he could go far if he had no ties to clutter his life.
‘I wonder if Heath Jenkins would be prepared to help me.’ Brandon changed the subject, turning to stare across the turgid waters at the yellow glare dying now from the skies. ‘He’s bright enough and willing and the boy has guts.’ He was aware of Mark looking at him in surprise. ‘You don’t agree?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know about that, sir, but the boy is very young. Someone with a silver tongue could work on him, convince him of anything. Perhaps it would be best to let him mature for a few more years and then he’ll be ripe for reforming, the way all we Welsh are.’ Mark grinned: ‘Preachers we are to a man!’
‘You may be right,’ Brandon agreed. ‘Heath probably needs a little more time to grow up.’ He sighed. ‘But I must see Evo tonight or that handbook will never be published.’
‘Evo’s willing to work the press I suppose?’ Mark asked and Brandon nodded.
‘Very reluctantly though, took quite a bit of convincing that it was all in his best interests.’
‘Aye, well he would. Evo is good at being backward, knows that it pays him in the end. Is the book nearly ready?’
Brandon nodded. ‘Yes, it’s almost finished.’ He smiled to himself in anticipation. ‘I guess it will cause quite a storm when it finally hits the streets, the owners of the steelworks will be rocked to their boots.’
‘Aye and you’d better look out then, sir. There’ll be more than one big shot after your hide and they have some sneaky ways of dealing with those they don’t like.’
‘I’ll take that risk,’ Brandon said evenly, ‘though I confess I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they get a special delivery of the handbook on their doormats.’
He moved away from the river and towards the mill. ‘I’m going to look at the new furnaces,’ he said, then turned to Mark. ‘In the meantime, I’d like you to do a check on the steam hammers; they should be working fine now but it does no harm to keep an eye on things.’
The mill was humid, the oven-like furnaces going full blast. A heat was in progress and Brandon marvelled at the skill of these men who had worked the tinplate for much of their lives. He saw the furnaceman swing a piece of plate to the rollerman, who wielded it deftly with the tongs that were as much a part of him as his own fingers. The steel jerked and bumped through the rollers and then the metal was transferred to the doubler. Brandon was fascinated by the way the man trod on the hot shimmering piece of steel and, with a twist of his arm, folded it as though it was nothing heavier than a linen handkerchief.
Behind the rolls, Heath Jenkins was working as hard as the other three men. He was last in line, as yet unskilled, but if he remained in the mill he would work his way through the grades, becoming at last a highly paid furnaceman.
Brandon moved away, unwilling to disturb the silk-like flow of the activities centred around the furnaces. The steel would be folded and heated and refolded until it was a piece of eight. It was a man’s job, well crafted and yet needing muscle to wield the razor-edged sheets with safety.
In the tinning house the air was alive with the chatter of women. The acrid smell of acid filled the room and the bosh set into the floor steamed as each plate was swung into the liquid.
The openers sat a little distance away from the pickling area, lifting the pieces of eight, slamming them down onto the bench, curling an edge so that the sheets would separate like the pages of a book.
Brandon stood unnoticed, watching the efforts of the women as they neatly packed the opened plates. The women filled up to sixty boxes a day and yet still found time to laugh and chatter as they toiled.
‘Morning, Jessie, how’s your boy doing? Not finding the work too hard, is he?’ The plump woman, her face wrinkled like a dried-up apple, smiled at him revealing blackened teeth.
‘Love it by here, he do. Adding acid to the bosh is all our Robbie ’as to do all day long. Money for old rope, it is.’
A sharp cry suddenly rent the air, changing to an animal howl of fear. Brandon turned quickly, reasoning that the sound came from the area of the acid bath. No one moved, then Jessie screamed aloud in terror. ‘Jesus! It’s my boy, he’s fallen into bosh!’
Brandon moved forward swiftly, taking in the situation at a glance. The boy had been standing on the edge of the bosh and had slipped, falling feet first into the acid. He was slowly disappearing into the murky liquid, his young face grey with fear and his eyes starting from his head.
Brandon stepped forward and yanked at the rough flannel of the boy’s shirt, lifting him upwards. Swiftly he covered the distance between the acid and the water and plunged the boy in head first.
‘Keep still boy, the water will wash the acid away. You’ll be all right, just don’t struggle or you’ll end up drowning us both.’ Carefully Brandon lifted him, the water running in rivulets from the boy’s flannel clothing as he laid him on a piece of sacking that one of the women had thrown to the ground. It was fortunate that the boy had been wearing good strong boots, for the acid had eaten them away into ribbons of steaming leather.
‘My son! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what’s happened to my son!’ Jessie flung herself onto the ground beside the dripping boy, her eyes wide with horror.
‘He’s all right’ Brandon spoke reassuringly. ‘But take him home, Jessie, and give him a bath.’
Jessie studied her son’s feet and legs minutely. ‘Yes, he’s all right. Get up boy, see if you can stand.’
Shakily the boy got to his feet and Jessie slapped him across the face. ‘That will teach you to take care, boyo, don’t you frighten your mam like that again!’
As the young boy snivelled Jessie hugged him to her, looking up imploringly at Brandon. ‘I can’t afford to go home, boss, I haven’t reached my number of sheets yet.’
‘Go on home.’ Brandon rested his hand on her shoulder and felt the coarseness of the material turned rusty in the acid atmosphere. Jessie smiled at him, her teeth rotting in her head.
‘I’ll see you have your pay and your son’s too,’ Brandon said quietly. ‘Now take him home and feed him a good meal; he looks very sorry for himself.’
‘Thank you, boss,’ Jessie, her arm around her son’s shoulder, moved away and Brandon knew by her attitude that far from appreciating his gesture, she thought him soft.
He left the mill and retraced his footsteps to the melting shop. The open-hearth furnaces were heaving and roaring like beasts from Hades, spitting as the slag was racked from the chimneys.
It was difficult to believe that from the reducing of the ore to pig iron through the processes of refining, annealing and pickling, fine tinplate would eventually emerge. And then the loads would be shipped to many ports to become containers for Mansion Polish or Skippers
Sardines.
Brandon ran his fingers through his hair. He would inspect the furnaces, talk to one or two of the men and then get off home. He would need rest if he was to be up most of the night working on the handbook.
It was much later when he made his way to the small printing premises nestling in the corner of a dingy court in the heart of Sweyn’s Eye. He could see a dim light shining through the cracked glass of the window and he felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that Evo had kept his word, however reluctantly.
Yet he had an instinct that the man was not to be trusted; his eyes were shifty and he lied as easily as he drew breath. Brandon had worked very hard to convince him to print the manuscript, and even with the offer of a large sum of money as recompense the man’s acceptance had been lukewarm. But at last he had agreed and that was all Brandon required of him. He did not need Evo’s undying devotion – which was just as well, he thought dryly, for he certainly was not about to get it.
The door was locked and barred and it took the printer interminable minutes to open it. He peered outside suspiciously, his waxed moustache dipping at the corners as he sniffed nervously. ‘Come in, Mr Sutton, I’m almost finished here.’
Brandon stepped into what seemed a snowstorm of loose papers; pages littered every surface and Brandon frowned, knowing that many hours yet would need to be spent on the book.
Evo apparently read his mind. ‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll soon have the pages fastened together. The hardest part is setting up the type. After that it’s all work a child could do.’
Brandon sat at a table and began to put the pages in order. It was as easy as Evo had claimed, but laborious and slow. ‘We’ll have to get some help with this,’ he said as he threw down a crumpled page in disgust, ‘it will take us a month of Sundays to complete one handbook.’
Evo shook his head. ‘Duw, a couple of youngsters would make short work of it, Mr Sutton. You are not used to the job, that’s what it is.’
Brandon rose to his feet impatiently. ‘Is there anyone you can trust to help out for a couple of hours?’ He thrust his hands into his pockets, staring round the lamplit room; the job was going to be more difficult than he had imagined.
‘My two daughters work for me normally, but for a job like this I’m not too keen.’ Evo rubbed his ink-stained hands against his canvas apron. ‘There’s an awful lot of blabbing goes on between young girls and I’m not putting my head on a chopping-block for anyone.’
Brandon moved towards the door. ‘Very well, I’ll see to it myself,’ he said evenly. It was cool outside, the silvery moon throwing an eerie light over the narrow court along which he was walking. He glimpsed a shadowy figure and his muscles tensed, his hands bunching into fists. The footsteps behind him were stealthy and uneven and Brandon strove to hear from which direction they were coming.
As he came into the light of the main street, the shadowy figure following him seemed to dissolve and he wondered if he had been imagining things. He rubbed his hand across his eyes, wishing now that he had ridden his horse and buggy to the press instead of walking. Perhaps it was time he bought himself an automobile, but then he could hardly spare the money – all he owned was invested in the steel and tinplate works.
He turned into Canal Street and the lights from the houses spilled onto the pavement and danced in the smooth waters of the canal. He thought suddenly of Mary Jenkins, seeing her tall, shapely figure in his mind’s eye. She was lovely and intelligent, with a temper like a viper’s sting.
His mouth curved into a smile. He would enjoy an encounter with Mary, he decided. He needed a woman, for he had done nothing but work of late, concentrating on building up trade as well as striving to get the tinplate handbook published. It was time he relaxed, found a diversion so that he could forget business for a while.
Yet Mary Jenkins was not really the answer to his problem. She was passionate enough, but she would demand more perhaps than he was prepared to give. In any event, he did not feel predisposed to share her with Dean.
Suddenly the door to her house opened and Mary was standing on the step staring at him. She looked beautiful in the moonlight, her hair loose, dark shimmering waves hanging to her waist. He paused in mid-stride and they eyed each other like adversaries.
‘Have you been snooping round my house?’ she demanded, her hands on her hips. He moved so that the light from the doorway fell on to his face.
‘Why should I snoop around, as you put it? If there is anything I want of you, I’ll come right out and say so.’
Colour suffused her face as she stepped away from him. ‘Well, someone was in my back yard, and then I heard footsteps outside my window.’ She spoke angrily, as though she did not believe his denial. Before he could reply she had closed the door and he cursed himself for a fool; he could have stepped into the bright neat little parlour and perhaps whiled away an hour.
On an impulse, he moved to the back of the row of buildings. The lane was dark and gloomy in the shadow of the tall houses and as he moved forward, a burly figure rushed past him almost knocking him off his feet. In spite of the darkness, Brandon was sure he recognised the broad shoulders and tufted untidy hair of the man. It was Gerwin Price.
Chapter Thirteen
The smell of the clean linen permeated the long room, the dreaming summer silence broken only by the rustle of brown paper. Rhian folded a sheet with meticulous care before passing it to the girl who stood next to her tying parcels with strong twine. At first, Rhian had rebelled at the thought of working in the Canal Street Laundry, and had considered Mary Jenkins an interfering busybody for insisting on finding her a job.
‘Just because you were courting our Billy don’t mean you have to boss me around.’ She could hear her words even now and would have liked to bite them back, but it was too late for that now that Mary had lost her own place in the laundry, dismissed by the new owner’s father, Mr Grenville Sutton.
Sally Benson, chosen to replace Mary as overseer, was a witch of a girl, plain as sin and jealous of anyone with passing good looks. She never missed a chance to speak spitefully about Mary.
For a time, Rhian had tolerated the girl’s company, her own irritation relieved by Sally’s frank dislike of Mary. But things were different now that Rhian recognised herself as being in love with Heath.
Her hands fell to smoothing the sheets in a caressing movement as she imagined herself in his arms, his lips warm, his strong young body straining against hers. Sometimes she was almost as frightened as she was thrilled by Heath’s passion.
She was well aware that so far she had made all the running. But lately, Heath had stopped thinking of her as a little girl and was beginning to take her seriously.
‘Dreamin’ again, sure and don’t you take the biscuit for going off into a trance!’ Katie Murphy placed a fresh pile of sheets beside Rhian. ‘These have to be folded, so come on and help me or we’ll be here till past midnight, sure enough.
Rhian smiled. She liked the Irish girl, who was always friendly and not given to moods of sulkiness. Yet there was a sadness deep in her blue eyes that even her smile could not quite conceal. Rhian had heard, along with everyone else, the story of how Katie had lost her lover in an explosion at the Kilvey Deep. The tragedy had a romantic pathos about it that appealed to Rhian’s sympathy.
‘Don’t tell me, you were thinkin’ about your young man again,’ Katie said softly. ‘I know the signs, sure I do, for wasn’t I in love myself once?’
Rhian took the end of a sheet and heard the crack of linen as Katie shook out the folds.
‘Love can be a painful thing,’ Katie continued. Her face fell into lines of sadness and her deep eyes seemed haunted with inner despair; but then she smiled and the effect was like a sudden glow of lamplight.
‘Sure and aren’t I a moaning minnie, then? And you so young with all your life before you.’ She brushed back her red-gold hair impatiently.
‘How is Big Mary faring these days? I suppose you see her often, you walking
out with her brother?’
‘I see quite a lot of Mary, it’s true,’ Rhian said slowly, ‘but it’s as if there’s a wall around her that no one can break through.’
‘I know what you mean. Mary was always the dignified one, lovely as the morning sun but not one to make friends over-easily.’ Katie put the folded sheet on the table. ‘I must go and see Mary soon, for ’tis on my conscience that I’ve not visited her since she left the laundry.’
‘You’d best hurry up, then,’ Rhian said, ‘otherwise you won’t see her at all.’ She saw the Irish girl’s eyes widen in astonishment.
‘What on earth can you mean?’ Katie’s hands rubbed at her apron and her brow was creased into a frown of anxiety. Rhian savoured the moment, realising that she had not only Katie’s attention but also that of the other girls sitting around the room too.
‘Being put out of her house in Canal Street, she is, at the end of the week,’ Rhian said slowly.
Katie sank down on to the long bench. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that can’t be true, can it?’ She spoke in a low voice. ‘Why, Mary loves that place, she’s worked like a tiger to make it her home.’
‘It is true,’ Rhian said hotly. ‘Heath told me so himself, worried sick about his sister he was when I spoke to him last.’
Katie fanned her hot cheeks with her hand. ‘I don’t know what to say and that’s for sure. Mary out in the street, after all this time! Poor girl, her lucky star must have fallen from the skies.’
‘Serves her right.’ Sally Benson stopped at the end of the long table, staring down at Katie with her eyes alight with mischief. ‘Always was uppity, wasn’t she? Thought herself better than the rest of us, looked down her toffee-nose at us, she did, just because she was friends with Mali Richardson.’
‘Sure, that’s all nonsense!’ Katie rose to her feet angrily. ‘And you shut your mouth about all this, do you hear? If there’s any gossip outside this laundry, then I’ll know who to look for.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the other girls and with a sniff, Sally Benson moved away. ‘Get on with your work, all of you,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘There’s enough to be done without wasting time talking about Mary Jenkins.’
Proud Mary Page 15