Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  Dean shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I’m not asking you to like him,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I care for him overly much myself, but he serves his purpose well enough. Come on, get some drinks in. Rickie, it’s your turn to pay.’

  * * *

  The finding of Rees the furnaceman’s body was a nine-day-wonder in the town, for Sweyn’s Eye was not used to murder. On the body was a black substance – carbon, some said, as though the man had been in a fire. But Rees had been battered to death in a vicious attack which left him bleeding in a gutter not a stone’s throw from the bright lights of the Cape Horner.

  A restless feeling prevailed over the streets for almost two weeks, but after that the doxies began to reappear, slinking along the alleyways like cats, plying their trade as carelessly as ever. Only three men knew the truth of what had happened that night and they were not about to reveal the secret to anyone.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was Sunday and the church bells rang out all over the sleeping town. Slowly, Sweyn’s Eye came alive to the misty November morning. Smoke began to rise from the chimneys, lights went on in gloomy kitchens, back doors opened and the pattern of the day was set.

  Mary still lay in her bed behind the curtain, listening to the running footsteps of the Murphy children, hearing their laughter and the calling voices with a dismal sense of being an outsider, belonging nowhere and to no one. Soon she must make a move, find a small house to rent; she could not presume upon Mrs Murphy’s good nature for much longer.

  She rose from her bed and shivered in the cold air. Down below in the backyard, she could see Katie, her face numb with sleepiness, filling the huge kettle with water from the pump.

  Mary sighed and climbed back under the bedclothes, hugging their warmth to her chilled limbs. She lay back against the pillows and behind her closed eyelids came a picture of Brandon. He had been gentle and loving last time they had met. He had not punished her with his body as he had done on their previous encounter. He had wooed her, beguiled her, made her cry with passion – yet in the week that had followed, there had been no word from him.

  But then she knew he was greatly troubled. Heath had come to see her, told her about the handbook and how when it was almost ready for distribution the work of months had been destroyed by fire. Mary had been concerned for Brandon, longing to see him again, wanting him in her arms so badly that she ached and yet he had not come to her.

  She sighed softly. She must put Brandon out of her thoughts, for she had problems enough of her own. Tomorrow she was to go before a board of officials from the Cooperative Movement; Alfred Phillpot had been adamant about it.

  ‘No one trades in the streets of Sweyn’s Eye without our approval,’ he had told her in a smooth officious manner.

  ‘Top of the mornin’ to you, Mary! I’ve brought you a nice hot cup of tea.’ Katie stood peering round the curtain and Mary smiled gratefully.

  ‘It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, sure it is!’ Katie sat on the edge of the bed and shivered and Mary took the cup from her with a rueful smile.

  ‘Thanks, though I’d rather it was in the cup than spilled all over me.’ She sipped the tea appreciatively. ‘It is a cold morning, I just put my toes out of bed and then decided to get back under the blankets again.’

  ‘There’s a good fire blazing downstairs,’ Katie said. ‘The trouble is that you can’t get near it for my gaggle of brothers. Me mam is sitting with her knees practically against the bars.’

  She smiled. ‘Sundays are usually quiet, for all the family goes to mass, but we slept late this morning and you’ll have to put up with our noise.’

  Mary made no reply. She was thinking of Canal Street and how the sabbath had been a day of pure enjoyment for her, a time when she could dust and clean the house until the furniture shone. One day she would buy her own house and then no one would be able to take it away from her.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re not listening to a word and me pouring my heart out here!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Katie,’ Mary said quickly. ‘I’m still half asleep, go on with what you were saying.’

  ‘Be sure to listen then! I was tellin’ you about Mark; asked me out again, so he has, gettin’ very keen if I read the signs right.’

  Mary looked at the Irish girl attentively now. ‘Mark seems a fine man from the little I’ve seen of him, and Heath has a great deal of respect for him. He must be special to be manager of the Beaufort Works and him so young. But what do you think of him, Katie, that’s what’s important?’

  Katie put her head on one side consideringly. ‘I’m not sure. I like him well enough, but do I love him, can I love anyone again?’ She shook back her red-gold hair. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘There’s something I know, you’re not going to spend the rest of your life alone, you’re too much of a born mother for that. I’ve seen you with your baby brother; you enjoy bathing and feeding him, I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Maybe, but a girl can’t marry a man just to have his baby.’ Katie rose from the bed and took Mary’s empty cup. ‘Come downstairs when you’re ready and I’ll cook you a bit of breakfast.’

  Mary listened to Katie’s footsteps hurrying down the uncarpeted stairs and then she got out of bed and dressed quickly. She was not looking forward to washing at the pump in the yard, but Katie’s house did not boast an indoor sink with running water. Spoiled, she’d been, Mary told herself; living in Canal Street had made her take so much for granted.

  By the afternoon, a weak sun had penetrated the clouds. Mary pulled a shawl around her shoulders and left the house in Market Street, thankful to be alone with her thoughts. The Murphys were kindness itself, but the noise of the three young boys and the continual shouting of Tom Murphy as he attempted to quieten them was giving Mary a headache.

  She wandered past the market square and stood for a moment looking at her own lock-up stalls with a feeling of pride. She had made a good start with her foodstuffs, selling cheeses now as well as bacon and fresh meat.

  The clothes stall had progressed a little more slowly, with Muriel fearful at first of using the sewing machine at Ty Mawr. But this last week she had gained courage and had turned out a sizeable number of undergarments which went from the stall almost as soon as they were set out. Everything had been fine until Mr Alfred Phillpot had come along with his grim eyes and his long face and persisted in complicating matters.

  But nothing would stop her now, Mary thought with determination. She knew she was supplying goods and food at prices the workers could afford. Even those on strike were able to buy from her, for she never quibbled however small the sale.

  She found herself walking past the docks and towards the snaking line of the river Swan. The sun turned the brackish water into gold and the last flare of autumn leaves patterned the swiftly running surface like jewels.

  The hill was before her and up there in one of the houses with windows gleaming in the bright afternoon air, Brandon would be living and breathing and perhaps thinking about her.

  On an impulse, Mary decided to walk up the hill and see if she could catch a glimpse of him. Her heart beat rapidly with the daring of her thoughts. But she told herself that she and Brandon were lovers, real lovers now; he wanted her as much as she wanted him, didn’t he? Yet when she neared the house that stood elegant and unfamiliar in the soft sunshine, Mary’s mouth was dry with fear.

  She knew she could never pluck up courage to knock on the ornate door and face some cheeky maid who would doubtless ask embarrassing questions. So she watched from a distance, longing by sheer effort of will to bring Brandon to her side. She ached to be in his arms, to look up into his turquoise eyes and see them misted with emotion.

  How long she stood staring in the direction of the house she could not afterwards remember, but she was reluctant to leave without at least a glimpse of Brandon’s tall handsome frame.

  She leaned against the dry bark of a tree. Above her the branches were p
artly stripped of their leaves, reaching skyward like skeleton fingers.

  Mary sighed. She might as well begin the homeward journey, for she was not going to see Brandon today. For a moment she was angry with him, how could he be so casual? Did he not feel the need for her in every pulse of his body? For that was the way she felt about him.

  She left the small wooded copse and caught a tram down into town, with a sense of having lost something precious which remained with her for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Mr Alfred Phillpot met Mary in the doorway of the hall, where the body of officials sat waiting to hear her speak. She stared around her, seeing men in starched shirts and one or two women in high-necked serge gowns – heavy and dark as befitted the weather.

  Outside a heavy rain was falling and as Mary had walked past the market square, she had seen stallholders shivering in the downpour. Her own stalls were unaffected, closed in, the stock dry and secure, and she congratulated herself on her innovative ideas.

  Mr Phillpot greeted her sombrely and led her forward into the body of the hall. It was chilly and damp and rain ran along the outside of the windows, dropping like tears onto the ledges.

  ‘We just want to ask you some questions.’ Alfred Phillpot didn’t smile, he settled himself opposite her so that she was alone, facing the people of the Cooperative Movement as though she was a criminal and they about to pass judgement on her.

  ‘Why have you not approached us?’ he began his attack at once. ‘New traders in the area have a moral duty to join the Cooperative Movement. We are for the people against the bosses who force their workers to trade in company shops.’ He paused dramatically. ‘We do not need freeloaders in Sweyn’s Eye, we need to stand together and become strong.’

  Mary stared at him, her eyebrows raised. ‘This is the first time I’ve heard of your existence, mind,’ she said unperturbed. ‘If you want people to join you, then I suggest you go about it in a more friendly fashion. I feel as though I’m being condemned by you for starting out on my own. I wasn’t aware that I had to ask the permission of the Cooperative.’

  She knew she was saying all the wrong things. Of course it was better for the traders to work together, but the high-handed way in which Alfred Phillpot had spoken was not calculated to gain her support.

  Staring at the row of uncompromising faces before her, she felt that not one of the people present in the hall looked as though they knew what a day’s honest work was all about.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said as she moved towards a woman who was seated near the centre of the group, ‘what sort of job do you have?’ There was silence for a moment and then Alfred Phillpot spoke up.

  ‘Mrs Asquith is the owner of the Asquith Arms. I’m sure you must have heard of that fine hotel.’

  ‘What I want to know is, have you been out selling goods yourself, Mrs Asquith, or do you merely own shares in the Cooperative?’ No one spoke and Mary put her hands on her hips, facing the people who thought fit to put her on trial.

  ‘I know what it’s like to come home after stoking boilers for ten hours, sometimes twelve hours a day,’ she said evenly. ‘I have no servants to clean, fetch and carry for me and no fancy hotel to fall back on. I’m a street trader, nothing else and so I resent the way I have been summoned here as though I were a criminal.’

  Mrs Asquith rose to her feet, placing a handkerchief to her nose and sniffing derisively. ‘I think we have made an error of judgement,’ she said haughtily. ‘Obviously, Miss Jenkins is not a suitable person for us to deal with.’

  Mary made for the door, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. ‘That’s quite all right by me,’ she said, her voice flat and hard with anger. ‘I don’t think you’re suitable for me either.’

  Outside she breathed deeply, trying to calm her anger. Mr Phillpot was right behind her, his face even longer, his eyes those of a mournful dog.

  ‘You’ve made a bad mistake, Miss Jenkins,’ he said softly. ‘I think you will find yourself unable to trade in Sweyn’s Eye after this.’

  Mary stared at him in silence for a long moment. ‘Are you making threats, Mr Phillpot?’ she asked quietly. He shook his head at once.

  ‘Oh, no, Miss Jenkins, I’m simply trying to warn you.’ He turned away and disappeared back into the hall and Mary shook her head in bewilderment.

  Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? She wanted nothing but to make a living, which reminded her that she should get to the square and open her stall as soon as possible – she had some fresh beef to sell and it would not keep another day.

  She did a brisk trade as usual and by the time she was packing up her stall for the night, the foodstuffs had sold out. There were still a few garments on her second stall and Mary covered them with paper before locking up. She knew that she must get more stocks in for the morning and it seemed only sensible to go for them now while she was in her stained apron and heavy working boots. But she felt tired and chilled as she went towards the Murphy household. She had lately taken to borrowing the fish cart, for with Big Jim to take the strain she could transport her stock much more efficiently.

  Tom Murphy had been about to give the huge horse a rubbing down, but he handed Mary the reins at once, a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Have the animal by all means, Mary, but you’ll be responsible for seein’ to the creature when you return.’ She nodded, a feeling of tiredness almost overwhelming her. Then she sighed and clucked her tongue and Big Jim ambled forward good-naturedly.

  The warehouse stood long and full of shadows, sacks of oatmeal lying around the floor in shapeless humps. Against the far wall stood chests of tea and further along were boxes full of tins of sardines. Mary had quickly learned that the plain foodstuffs were the quick sellers.

  A man loomed out of the shadows so suddenly that she was startled. ‘Oh, Jake, I just wanted a few things for the stall. I’m not too late, am I?’

  His glance slid away from her. ‘Can’t serve you, Miss Jenkins,’ he said flatly. He began to draw the big heavy doors together and Mary frowned, puzzled by his attitude.

  ‘What do you mean, Jake, there’s mysterious you’re being, why can’t you serve me?’

  Jake came forward into the light and glanced round furtively. ‘You know this is my full-time job here in the warehouse. I couldn’t live on the money Mrs Evans pays me to be her bailiff.’ He paused for a moment. ‘It’s Mr Phillpot, you see, he’s been here from the Cooperative, says if I sell to you all the Coop shops won’t buy from my warehouses any more.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t be expected to give up big orders like that, especially for a Johnnie-come-lately like you.’

  Mary felt anger run through her like quicksilver. She put her hands on her hips and Jake took a step backwards as though in mortal fear of her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there you are, missus. I’ve got me livelihood to think of. You can’t blame me for looking after what’s my own.’

  ‘There’s only one person I blame and that is Alfred Phillpot,’ Mary said fiercely. Her arms dropped to her sides. ‘And if I go elsewhere, I’ll hear the same story, I suppose,’ she said in resignation. Jake nodded his grizzled head.

  ‘’Fraid so, no one will sell to you, not unless you travel outside the borough, that is. I don’t think Mr Phillpot’s influence is felt so far as Skewen or Neath, though.’

  For a moment hope flickered in Mary’s heart, only to die as quickly as it had come. It would be pointless travelling such distances, not unless she found herself some transport.

  She clucked her tongue at Big Jim and the horse ambled forward. ‘You’d be no good to me, boyo, willing though you are.’ As she stroked the animal’s rough mane Mary’s eyes were hard and dry and there was a tight knot of pain and anger in her throat. But one thing she was determined on: Alfred Phillpot would not have the last word. And what’s more, in the not-too-distant future, the Cooperative Movement would be begging her to join them.

  ‘Come on, Jim,’ Mary whispered, guiding the big horse
towards the road. ‘We might as well go home.’

  * * *

  The laundry was hotter than ever, Katie thought as she pulled at the string that bound the brown paper parcel of sheets. She pushed back her red-gold hair and stared out of the window for a moment, not seeing the rainswept November landscape. Her face softened as she thought of Mark, for he was becoming more important to her with every day that passed.

  Mark was forceful, ardent, handsome, everything she could want in a man and yet Katie was reluctant to commit herself to him. She bit her lip, remembering with a sense of pain how much she had been in love with William.

  But that was a long time ago. He had been killed near the Kilvey Deep – not, strangely enough, in the explosion that flooded a string of pits but in an accident, falling from a moving car. In any case he had been a bad one, Katie’s mother had always said so.

  ‘Taking you to his bed doesn’t bind a man to you, beast gives as much to beast.’ Katie could hear her mother’s words even now and she shivered suddenly.

  ‘Goose walked over your grave?’ Sally Benson was standing staring at Katie, her eyes as always hostile, though her tone was amiable enough.

  ‘You could say that.’ Katie had no intention of confiding her innermost thoughts to Sally. She was an insensitive woman; she seemed to grow older but no wiser and she was still as ugly as sin.

  The door to the long room opened and without waiting to be announced, Mr Sutton was striding down the length of the packing room with an angry expression on his face.

  ‘This really will not do!’ He held a letter in his hand and he shook it in Sally Benson’s face. ‘Complaints, complaints, that’s all I ever seem to get from my customers these days. I guess something is going wrong here and I want to know the reason why.’

  There was a long silence and then Katie spoke up. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure, you can’t blame Mary Jenkins for what’s happening now. Wrong it was to get rid of her, best overseer the Canal Street Laundry ever had, so she was.’