Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  Dean’s face grew pale with rage.

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that, you little hoyden!’ He dragged her from the bed. ‘You’re a little slut, get back onto the streets where you belong!’ His hand caught her a blow across her cheek and she reeled away from him.

  As she fumbled for her clothes, drawing a skirt over her nightgown, she felt tears blind her eyes and her mind was reeling with bitter thoughts.

  Dean thrust a coat at her. ‘Go on, get out! I don’t want you under my roof one moment longer. You’d be a whore for my brother, but not for me. You’re a fool, Mary Jenkins.’

  Mary buttoned her coat with trembling fingers, unable to speak, then she moved to the door. As she stood on the landing she could see lights blazing below and could imagine how the servants were savouring this moment, with the possible exception of Bertha who had come to have a kind of guarded respect for her. She hurried down the stairs and as she strode out into the sharpness of the autumn night, she heard a dog howl somewhere to the rear of Ty Mawr.

  She stared around her and the night closed in, shadows covering her path so that she stumbled over a boulder, almost falling to her knees. Then the moon slid from behind the clouds, lighting her way, and she lifted her head. A little way above her, standing out against the sky, was the turreted rooftop of Plas Rhianfa. Fresh hope filled Mary as she began to stumble up the hill. Mali would take her in and would ask no awkward questions.

  Yet as she neared the imposing house, her steps faltered, Mali was Mrs Sterling Richardson now – would she be embarrassed by Mary’s plight? She hesitated on the step and almost turned away but then it began to rain, light specks at first like the spitting of a cat but then growing harder, more spiteful.

  Mary lifted the handle shaped like a lion’s mouth and let it fall. It echoed loudly through the silent house. For a long time nothing moved behind the dark elegant front of the huge building and she almost turned away, thinking of seeking shelter in one of the outbuildings. Then a light spilled suddenly from the stained-glass window over the door and Mary paused, her mouth dry, her heart pounding, knowing only that she had never felt so ashamed in all her life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Market Street was unspectacular, a row of plain-fronted houses. The only saving grace was in the large windows superimposed upon the old buildings and giving them the dubious respectability of being described as shops. The street led directly off Copperman’s Row, where the low flat cottages housed copper workers and had done so for over a hundred years.

  Mary hoisted her bag on her shoulder and passed along Copperman’s Row into Market Street, where she knocked at the door of Murphy’s Fresh Fish Shop.

  It opened at once and Katie stood with a child in her arms, her face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Come in, Mary, and sure you’re more than welcome. Me Mammy’s got a room ready for ye.’ She grinned. ‘Well, part of my room it is really, but there’s a curtain put between the beds so you should have some privacy.’

  Mary swallowed hard. Why was it that those with very little to give were the most open-handed?

  ‘There’s kind of your mother! I shan’t be staying long, mind, only until I find somewhere of my own.’

  Katie took the bag from Mary’s arm. ‘Hush, now, sure isn’t this your home for as long as you need it?’

  Tom Murphy was nowhere to be seen and Mary felt a sense of relief. He was kindly enough and yet there was something about his pale eyes that repelled her.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea or something stronger?’ Mrs Murphy was sitting before the fire, her sons playing at her feet, quarrelling like young puppies over a slice of bread and butter. She scolded one of them and without rancour the boy stared up at her with mouth open.

  ‘Tea, please,’ Mary replied quickly. The smell of gin permeated the room and the fumes were sickly-sweet, mingling badly with the odour of fish from the shop at the front of the house.

  ‘Sure and Mary can take her things upstairs first, Mammy,’ Katie said firmly. ‘Come on, this way!’

  Katie showed her upstairs and then retreated. Mary was grateful, knowing that her friend was giving her time to get her bearings.

  She sat down on the narrow bed and looked around her. The room was not overly large, but Katie had given Mary the half that boasted a window. Below there was little to be seen but a tangle of gardens, ill kept for the copper dust killed everything in its path except (it seemed) the most ferocious weeds.

  Mary sighed. At least she had a resting place, an oasis of time where she could stop running scared and take stock of her life. She had left her home in Canal Street and moved in to Dean Sutton’s house and now, here she was in Market Street with a half-formed plan running round in her brain.

  She thought with bitterness of the night Dean had turned her out into the darkness. He had no right to think she should fall into his arms just when he wanted her to. He might have bought her services in the shop and she had to admit that she had led him to believe she would be his mistress, but he had allowed so little time to elapse since his wife’s death and he flatly refused to listen to reason.

  She had turned to Mali for help that night and had received a warm response. Mali had begged Mary to stay with her at Plas Rhianfa for as long as she liked but Mary could not settle there, could not intrude on a life that was not of her making. But she had taken the loan of money Mali pressed upon her. It was only what was due to her, Mali had said.

  ‘After all the years of looking after the affairs of the laundry so well, it’s the least I could do for you.’ Mali’s face had been warm and sweet. ‘And it’s my fault, indirectly, that you are without a job.’ She sighed. ‘I had no idea that Dean wanted his father to run the business or that there was any dissension between the old man and you.’

  Mary had grimaced. ‘I’m afraid I caused quite a barney between the Sutton men, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be forgiven for that.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Never mind, when I make my fortune I’ll pay you back.’ Mary had spoken solemnly, meaning what she said and after a time Mali had nodded her agreement.

  Mary leaned against the windowpane, which was cold beneath her cheek. Staring out along the row, she could hear the faint sound of music and smiled to herself. That would be Dai-End-House, she had heard Mali talk about him many times.

  She stared broodingly out at the dullness of the day, recognising that she had come down in the world suddenly. But she was nowhere near the bottom where she had begun. To her as a child, a cottage in Market Street would have seemed like a palace, born and bred as she was in the poorest part of the town. In the slums rats were bedfellows and rain poured in through holes in the roof. No one owned anything, not even the house they lived in, for when one family died or moved away others would take their place without causing a ripple.

  Mary pushed the thoughts aside and turned to sit on the bed. Then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs and knew that Katie was bringing her some tea.

  The Irish girl placed the cup beside Mary and retreated to the door. ‘Shall we walk along Market Street for a while afterwards, then I can show you round the place?’

  Mary nodded. ‘That would be lovely, merchi.’

  Katie smiled. ‘Something in you reminds me of Mali when you speak like that.’

  Mary gave a short laugh. ‘Except that I’m three times as big as her and not half the lady she is.’

  Katie rubbed at her forehead. ‘I know all that, and yet it’s somethin’ in your spirit. Aw, it’s daft I’m talkin’, take no notice. See you in a few minutes then, and bring your shawl, it’s turned cold outside.’

  The air was freezing as, later, Mary walked down Market Street beside Katie. The trees, losing their colour now, moaned and twisted in the biting wind coming in from the sea, filling the valley as though it was a bowl, scurrying the leaves along pavements and lifting the skirts of women shoppers.

  Market Street led downhill, a long narrow road which at the bottom branched out into a wide square.
Mary stopped and looked around her, staring at the scene with a strange sensation of excitement.

  There were about twenty market stalls set in a chaotic pattern that somehow added up to a scene of colourful disorder. Butchers’ stalls vied for room among a riot of vegetables and bakery counters, and just to add spice some of the stalls were selling woollen blankets and Welsh shawls that would warm a body even in the coldest weather.

  This Mary felt was her new lifeline. She would start to build her dream here and to hell with the men of the Sutton family! She would not be beaten by any of them, least of all by Brandon who had taught her the meaning of love and then discarded her.

  ‘You look as if you’re in church standing before the Blessed Virgin,’ Katie spoke softly at her side and Mary glanced down at her. ‘Perhaps in my own way, I am,’ she replied.

  Katie shook back her red-gold hair, her face puzzled and Mary rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘Would you mind if I went off alone for a while, though it’s kind of you to come down here with me, mind.’

  ‘You’re not a little girl in a pinny, and I don’t have to look after you,’ Katie said. ‘In any case, I want to get some shopping done, me mammy’s asked for something special for supper tonight, in your honour.’ She grimaced. ‘We’re all getting to be tired of fish everlasting.’

  Mary wandered through the crowds with an almost magical sense of belonging. She breathed in the scents and sounds of the marketplace, knowing in her bones that her ambitions had lain dormant for too long. Now born of necessity, the time was come to move into a new way of life.

  Suddenly she felt as though she was drowning in a whirlpool of emotions. Like a shaft of lightning she was tinglingly aware that she was not meant for marriage and children. She could not envisage belonging to Billy Gray, not now or ever, or being the chattel of any man come to that. She would forget about love and emotion, she told herself firmly, put everything of herself – her heart, her mind and her passions – into the building of a business.

  She looked round her, wondering who she could approach for information. She would need a stall and some stock, but what was she going to sell? The answer came at once: she would have a stall that sold anything and everything! She would run more than one stall – why not? she thought in jubilation.

  It took some time to find the owner of the plot of land on which the market stood. At first the stallholders had looked at her with suspicion and then she had explained that she was staying at Tom Murphy’s Fresh Fish Shop and tongues were loosened. Folk felt that her association with a local trader, however tenuous, entitled her to a place in the market.

  Mrs Evans was more like a farmer’s wife than a businesswoman. She lived in a good stout house at the bottom of the hill, a comfortable existence brought about by the fact that her late husband had left her some land and she had had enough innate sense to make the best use of the property. She looked up at Mary from her rocking chair in the corner of her comfortable parlour and pursed her lips.

  ‘You want room for two stalls?’ she asked curiously, ‘Do you know anything about the business of buying and selling, merchi?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘Only a little, but that is not your problem, Mrs Evans. I have the money and it’s up to me to make a success of the business. Either way, you can’t lose.’

  ‘Quite right, too.’ The woman nodded her head and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders.

  ‘All I rent is the land, you understand that? You must get your own stall or table or whatever you mean to show your wares on. You will have stiff competition; there’s Jake Zimmerman my bailiff for one; hates newcomers, he does. And don’t forget that customers are fickle; they will come to you at first just to see if they can get you to make a mistake in the change or give them a bargain out of ignorance. They’re mad dogs, are customers, they will savage you any time they can so have no illusions, Mary Jenkins.’

  ‘Then you’ll rent me some land?’ Mary asked quietly and after a moment Mrs Evans nodded.

  Mary moved to the door and the old woman stopped her. ‘Just one piece of advice I will give you because I admire your courage – join the Cooperative Movement, my girl, the customers like to think they’re getting a divvy, even if they’re not. In any case, soon the Cooperative will take over everything and those who do not belong will be left behind.’ Mrs Evans smiled, revealing rotten stumps of teeth.

  ‘Don’t bother to thank me, merchi, you’ll be perhaps blaming me when all your money and all your stock is gone and you haven’t made yourself a fortune. Why don’t you marry a man with money, that’s the quickest way to get rich!’

  Mary shook her head as she opened the door. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said and let herself out into the roughness of the afternoon.

  The wind had dropped, the trees no longer swayed and moaned overhead but the few remaining leaves rustled like children whispering.

  Mary moved down the hill and stared out towards the sea which was topped by white foam like milk come straight from the cows. Her heart was filled with hope. She would get a carpenter to make her stalls. They would be different from the others in the market, because these stalls would have sides that Mary could close and lock. In that way, her stock could remain in place overnight and she would save herself the task of setting up the stall and taking it down every day. She was prepared for opposition, she expected it, but soon she would be accepted. Once the strangeness of seeing her in the square wore off, she would be recognised as one of the traders.

  With a feeling of excitement running through her veins she made her way back through the town, avoiding Canal Street and making once more for the market. She walked around the stalls, summing up what goods were being displayed, her mind constantly working on what would be the best items to sell.

  There didn’t seem to be many children’s clothes on display. There was only one stall as far as Mary could see, and that was poorly stocked. She watched a cobbler mending shoes as he sat before his bench, which seemed to her the ideal way to work. Not a minute of his time was wasted and he even tapped a pair of boots while the owner stood barefoot and self-conscious in the street.

  Mary pursed her lips in thought. What if she hired a girl to do some sewing, bought a machine that would run up hems in a few moments? Alterations while you wait, big brother’s trews cut down and fitted on the spot.

  She could have someone at work on one stall while she stocked food on the other. Bacon was a good seller – salted, it would keep for days. And potatoes, gathered fresh from the farmer, perhaps even picked by herself from the ground. Her thoughts whirled as she stood in the bustle of the market square and hope blossomed within her.

  At last she turned away and walked down the road towards the docks. A sailing ship bobbed restlessly on the water, sails unfurling, cracking in the wind as the vessel prepared to go out with the tide. Mary perched on the low wall and stared out to sea; she had the plans for her future sorted out and she felt happier than she had done for weeks.

  Crisp hard footsteps caught her attention and she looked up quickly, knowing the walk. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast, though outwardly she appeared composed. The last person she expected to see now was Brandon. He stopped before her, thrusting his hands into his pockets in a gesture she had come to know well. He smiled arrogantly, looking down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable.

  ‘I hear you were taken up to Ty Mawr only to be thrown out on your ear.’ He spoke brutally. ‘Didn’t you please my brother?’

  Mary glared at him furiously. ‘Mind your own business.’ She made to rise and walk away but he barred her way. ‘Let me pass, I don’t have to answer to you for anything, mind.’ She spoke desperately, her eyes refusing to meet his; she longed to press herself close to him, to lay her head upon his shoulder and beg him to love her. But he would only laugh in her face.

  She held her head erect and stared past him at the bobbing sails of the ship in the harbour, wishing herself a thousand miles away from Brandon Sutton. Her ha
nds were clenched at her sides even as he caught her shoulders, his hands caressing. He drew her nearer and she stared up at him angrily.

  ‘Mary,’ his voice whispered softly in her ear. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him, love flowing from every pore of her body.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ she asked, trying desperately to cling to her image of herself as a businesswoman doing no man’s bidding.

  ‘I just want to talk to you, Mary,’ he said reasonably and she stared up at him, her eyes hard.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she said harshly. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Not here.’ He took her arm. ‘Come with me, Mary and stop behaving like a spoiled child.’

  Although her thoughts were in a confusion of anger, she allowed him to lead her away from the docks and into the narrow streets of the town. He kept her in the shelter of his arm and she could think of nothing to say. She was a fool, she told herself, she never had nor never would love anyone the way she loved him, and he simply was not worthy.

  In silence they walked arm in arm, like lovers. The air was tingling fresh as Mary breathed, the sky was darkening now and the first of the stars beginning to shine. She wondered where Brandon was leading her but she went with him trustingly. He took her through the entrance of the Mackworth Arms where a plethora of plants stood in jardinières and the pile of the carpet was softer than grass.

  In the foyer, he left her for a moment and spoke to the man at the desk in hushed tones; then he was leading her up the staircase into a room that had russet curtains on the windows and a matching quilt on the large bed which dominated the room.

  ‘Mary, sweet Mary!’ He took her in his arms and kissed her mouth and even as his hand deliberately opened the bodice of her blouse, Mary’s thoughts were racing. She drew away from him suddenly, her heartbeats uneven.

  ‘What’s this place?’ She looked round her at the grand washstand covered in green marble, the high ornate gaslights and the dark tones of the wall coverings.