Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  In the morning, she rose late and had to rush to be ready for the laundry. She did not see Heath. He had already left the house, which spoiled her day for a start.

  ‘Haven’t you got that fire started yet, Carrie?’ She pushed past the woman who came every day to look after Aunt Agnes without as much as glancing at her and pulled her shawl around her shoulders, feeling at odds with the world.

  ‘Everyone is rushing about like hens with their heads chopped off this morning,’ Carry grumbled. ‘Don’t know why I bother to come to this house, there’s nothing but sulks to greet me. Your aunt’s tea was not ready first thing and now she’s in a bad mood. I think I’ll go home and go back to my bed.’

  Rhian was contrite. How would she ever manage without Carrie to do the bulk of the hard work around the house? For as long as she could remember Carrie had been there, picking up after her, pandering to her, but lately she seemed a bit more waspish.

  ‘I didn’t mean to moan,’ Rhian said quickly. ‘Take no notice, we’d all be lost without you.’

  ‘Aye, I know that,’ Carrie said, thrusting paper into the fire and puffing on it trying to get a blaze going. She straightened. ‘Got choir practice tonight, haven’t you, girl?’ Her eyes were narrowed and Rhian stared at her in surprise.

  ‘You know I have, why do you ask?’

  Carrie shook her head. ‘No reason. Get off with you now, or you’ll be late for work – and from what I’ve heard of that new boss, you’ll be out on your arse before you know it.’

  Rhian frowned. Carrie could be so coarse on times, but then what could you expect? She had been a widow for years and with no man to look after her she’d grown hard; she was to be pitied not condemned.

  Rhian left the house and hurried along the cold damp street. A light rain was falling, made bitter by the driving wind that howled around corners, bending trees almost double and scurrying papers along the gutters of the streets.

  But it would be comfortable in the laundry. The packing room was warm and pleasant, not smelling of urine like the boiler house – how anyone could work in those conditions, Rhian could not understand. As she entered the gates, Sally Benson was peering out through one of the windows. Trust Sally to catch her out on the one day she was late, Rhian thought miserably. The girl pounced as soon as Rhian entered the packing room. She was standing, arms akimbo, her eyes aglow with spiteful glee.

  ‘Late this morning, aren’t we?’ she said briskly. ‘And the boss has been around already, so there’s no hiding it.’

  ‘This is the first time I’ve ever arrived after everyone else,’ Rhian said defiantly. ‘I don’t think Mr Sutton would be unreasonable about that.’

  ‘I’m overseer of this laundry, or have you forgotten?’

  Sally’s face was flushed and Rhian knew with a sinking of her heart that she had said the wrong thing.

  She remained silent, waiting for Sally to make the next move, for whatever Rhian said now she would only make matters worse.

  ‘I think you’d better spend a day down in the boiler house,’ Sally said after a long silence. ‘Your boyfriend’s sister did it and I can’t see why you shouldn’t have a taste of what it’s like to work hard.’ She caught one of Rhian’s hands and stared down at the slim white fingers in disgust. ‘Never had to get these hands dirty, have you? Well, it’s about time you did.’

  ‘I’m not working down there,’ Rhian said flatly. ‘I’ll go and see Mr Sutton first. Too big for your boots you’re getting, Sally Benson. Think you’re a little tin god, don’t you? Well, I won’t put up with your bullying, I’m going to see the boss myself.’

  Rhian walked away, pleased with the look of sheer panic which had crossed Sally’s face at her words. She was being unreasonable and she knew Mr Sutton would not thank her for allowing one of the workers to pester him.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Sally said. ‘Perhaps I was a little bit hasty. I’ll forget it this time so long as it doesn’t happen again.’

  But Rhian was already hurrying down the rickety stairs, her white apron flapping in the breeze. She wrinkled her nose as she reached the door of the boiler house, for the stink was intolerable. She could never work in such surroundings, she would rather give up the job altogether. After all, she didn’t really need to work – Aunt Agnes was not a poor woman, she had more than enough to keep the house going without the pittance Rhian brought home from the laundry.

  Mr Sutton was not in the office and Rhian guessed that he must be in the boiler house, for last night there had been a bit of a fuss over one of the boilers being clogged. She made for the door and swung it open and stared uncertainly into the long room. She had never been into the boiler house before and at first glance it was like a taste of hell. Huge boilers rose up from the floor with fires flaring beneath them.

  As Rhian watched, Doris opened one of the doors and thrust a mountain of coal inside. Thick choking smoke gushed forth, along with flames that were like dragons’ breath.

  Rhian was not aware that anything was amiss until she heard some of the women screaming. Events seemed to move with incredible slowness then. Rhian saw Mr Sutton’s tall figure hurrying towards the boiler; at the same time he was calling to the women to leave the room, his arms waving like the struts of a windmill.

  The boiler gushed into a deafening roar. It appeared to lift right off the ground, scattering hot coals over Doris who screamed like a banshee. A hail of metal and boiling water swept downwards over the terrified women and one of them fell, clutching at her eyes. Rhian felt a stinging sensation on her arm and then she was joining in the screams that were drowned by the roar of the flames devouring the room.

  She fell outward into the yard and alongside her crawled a woman who was unrecognisable. Her hair was enveloped in flames and her face blackened by smoke. Rhian looked over her shoulder and lying only a few feet away from her was the remains of a human arm. Blackness rose up before her eyes, engulfing her, and she knew she was going to be violently sick.

  * * *

  The aftermath of the explosion was something that rocked Sweyn’s Eye for a few days and then died away into obscurity, a nine-days-wonder to be forgotten by all but those who were affected by the accident. Rhian’s arm was badly scalded and she would bear the scar for life but she was one of the lucky ones.

  It was Mary who came to see her and explain what had happened. ‘The boilers need to be kept cleaned out,’ she said, ‘or else the dust and coke chokes the flues.’

  Rhian stared at her from the comfort of her bed and bit her lip worriedly. ‘Was anyone killed?’ she asked in a small voice.

  Mary looked down at her hands. ‘Old Mr Sutton died in the infirmary. They say he was very brave, warning the women to get clear. Old Sarah is dead and most of the women are injured.’ She paused, swallowing hard.

  ‘It will take some time to rebuild the boiler house, the fire gutted it. All the girls from the packing room got out all right, as they managed to run down the steps before the fire really took hold.’

  ‘I feel ashamed that I fainted,’ Rhian admitted miserably. ‘Perhaps there was something I could have done.’

  Mary took Rhian’s uninjured hand in her own. ‘It was lucky you hadn’t gone into the room, or you might have been killed,’ she said gently. ‘No need to blame yourself. It’s pointless laying the blame at anyone’s door, the mischief’s been done now and there’s no undoing it.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go back to work there any more,’ Rhian said positively. ‘Not with Sally Benson in charge of the laundry, no fear!’ She shivered and the pain in her arm grew more intense. ‘What will happen to her now – Sally, I mean?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t know. The devastation is so great that it’s unlikely the laundry will ever open again. In any case, Sally wouldn’t be trusted with so much as a shovel of coal from now on.’

  ‘Serves her right,’ Rhian said quickly. ‘Treated us like pigs, she did, she was so uppity about taking your job and all. Rubbing it in to me, she
was, that my boyfriend is your brother as though it was a crime.’ Rhian became aware of Mary’s eyes upon her and she lifted her head defiantly, ‘She’s got no one to blame but herself, so don’t go giving me funny looks, Mary.’

  ‘I feel sorry for the girl,’ Mary replied quietly. ‘She’s got a lot on her conscience, mind.’

  ‘But Mary, it was all Sally Benson’s fault. If she had done her job properly none of it would have happened.’

  ‘I know,’ Mary sighed, ‘but she has my pity all the same.’

  Heath entered the room, dressed to go out as usual. Rhian pouted up at him.

  ‘I thought you might have kept me company this evening,’ she said as he sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward and patted her head before giving Mary an affectionate kiss.

  ‘Me, I’m off out, playing nursemaid isn’t a game that appeals to me. Anyway, you’ve got Mary here with you, so don’t grumble, girl.’

  Before Rhian could speak Mary had risen to her feet. ‘Don’t bring me into this. I’m off home, there’s a lot for me to do before morning.’

  Heath was taller than Mary now and a strong handsome man, the contours of his face losing their boyishness.

  ‘Still at the Murphys?’ he asked and when Mary nodded, he shook his head.

  ‘Get out of there. Find a place of your own even if it’s one room in an attic. You’re the sort who needs independence as others need air to breathe.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Mary pulled on her gloves. ‘And I keep meaning to look round, but there never seems to be enough time.’ She turned to Rhian. ‘I’ll be back to see you in a day or two. Meanwhile try to rest, it’s the only way that the body can heal itself.’

  Brother and sister left the room together and Rhian punched at her pillow in anger. Heath could have stayed in with her just this once, it wouldn’t have hurt him. On an impulse, she got out of bed and began to dress. Anything, even sitting with her aunt, was better than the boredom of lying in bed.

  Downstairs, she peered round the door of the parlour, hoping that Heath wouldn’t have left yet, but her aunt was sitting alone, nodding before the fire as usual. She opened her eyes when Rhian came into the room.

  ‘Oh! It’s you,’ she said and her voice sounded strange, almost as though she was standing at the end of a tunnel. She lifted her hand to her head and her face was very pale.

  ‘I’m not well, Rhian,’ she said and held out her hand imploringly. Her skin was dry and burning and Rhian realised that for once her aunt wasn’t simply asking for sympathy, she really was sick.

  ‘What can I get you, Auntie?’ Rhian asked. ‘Would you like me to help you into bed?’

  Aunt Agnes shook her head. ‘I think you should go down the road and fetch Carrie, she’ll know what’s best.’

  Rhian bit her lip. She didn’t want to leave her aunt alone and yet there seemed no alternative, so she pulled a shawl around her shoulders and paused in the doorway.

  ‘Now don’t you move from there, Auntie. I won’t be more than a few minutes.’

  Ignoring the pain of her arm, Rhian hurried along the pavement, her heart beating swiftly. Auntie Agnes might be a moaner, but she had never admitted to being ill before.

  The door was on the latch and Rhian let herself into Carrie’s house with the ease of long practice. The kitchen was empty, though the gaslight burned brightly and a healthy fire roared in the grate.

  Rhian looked round fearfully, wondering if Carrie could be out visiting one of her neighbours. She stood still staring at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, looking at her reflection in the oval mirror high above the fireplace without really seeing herself. She was about to leave the house when a small sound from upstairs caught her attention.

  Silently she moved to the long passageway that was full of shadows and hurried up the carpeted stairs. A strip of light showed from under one of the doors and Rhian thankfully pushed it open.

  She had been about to spill out her fears, but the words died on her lips at the picture before her. She stood in the shadows of the doorway, unobserved by the figures in the room. They moved in the bed as though spun in a half-light from a dream. It was Carrie… but not the Carrie she had always known. This Carrie was naked with hair streaming down her shoulders, her eyes closed, her thighs moving rhythmically to meet the thrust of the man above her. He was long and lean and his body seemed coiled over the woman like a spring. His hair was crisp around a strong face and it was several moments before Rhian realised who it was.

  ‘Heath!’ The name was like a cry of anguish and then she was forcing back the feelings of rage that washed through her.

  Heath was on his feet, staring mutely towards her, unaware of his nakedness. ‘I thought you were my man!’ Rhian’s voice was harsh. ‘You don’t belong with a woman like Carrie, she’s old!’ Rhian paused, trying to clear her thoughts – she couldn’t run away because her aunt might be truly sick. She took a deep breath, trying not to see the pale figure in the bed, mouth open and staring at her. ‘Carrie, you must come at once, Auntie is ill.’ Her voice was faint, like the whisper of the wind.

  It was Heath who replied, ‘Rhian, go back to your aunt, we’ll be with you in a few minutes. Try to keep calm.’

  As Rhian let herself into the house, tears were gushing down her cheeks, sobs choking her throat. ‘How could you betray me, Heath?’ she murmured in anguish. She forced her mind to return to her aunt’s plight and half fearfully, she opened the parlour door. Her aunt was slumped back in her chair, her eyes closed, her hand to her breast. Rhian moved forward, hearing with a sense of relief the small gasp of breath stealing between her aunt’s lips.

  In a surprisingly short time, Carrie and Heath were in the house, taking control with Carrie holding the old lady’s hand and feeling for her pulse.

  ‘Put on the kettle, Rhian,’ she said in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘We’ll mix up some hot water and brandy. Nothing too wrong here, just a little faint I’d say – it’s to be expected at her age. Now don’t look so pale and lost, everything is going to be all right.’

  Rhian filled the kettle and pushed it on to the hob, her movements those of a sleepwalker. She knew that she would never again look at Carrie without seeing her wrapped naked in Heath Jenkins’ arms. She wanted to scream and cry and hurt and smash, but she knew it would do no good. She fetched the brandy out of the cupboard and set it on the table, scarcely glancing up as Heath stood beside her…

  ‘It’ll be all right, don’t worry,’ he said, and as Rhian lifted her eyes to look at him she wondered if anything would be all right ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Camel Top Van dominated the whole of Market Street. It stood high and imposing against the backdrop of shops; a vehicle several years old, bumped and dented but freshly painted now and proud in the winter sunlight.

  Mary walked around the van, seeing with a feeling of achievement her name emblazoned on the side in large black lettering. All that remained now was for her to learn to drive the van, to handle the horse drooping between the shafts – and then she was in business. At her side, Mark stood with arms folded, a look on his face akin to that of a father surveying his first child.

  ‘Duw, she looks fine now, don’t you think, Mary? No one would recognise her as the battered old bakers’ van I bought from a bankrupt firm.’ He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t show her to you before, not with all the mud and scrapes and dinginess about her. Now you are seeing old Bessie in all her glory, she’ll do you proud.’

  Mary pushed back her hair with a feeling of excitement. She allowed Mark to help her into the driving seat and stared around, seeing Market Street from the view of a bird perched on the branch of a tree. It was a terrifying experience and she wondered if she would ever get used to the feeling of sitting on top of the world.

  ‘Where’s Katie gone?’ Mark said suddenly and Mary shook her head in bewilderment.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her this past hour, but then I’ve been so busy opening
and shutting doors and marvelling at the room inside the van that I’ve noticed nothing else.’

  Mark shook his head. ‘She’s a mystery, that one. You never know when you’ve got her and when you’ve not.’

  Mary smiled down at him as he rested his foot on the fender of the bus. ‘Ah, but that’s where the attraction lies, isn’t it, boyo?’

  Mark refrained from answering. Instead, he climbed into the driving seat and flicked the reins, startling the horse into movement.

  ‘What do I do if I want to stop?’ she asked in panic as the wheels rolled smoothly forward.

  ‘There’s a brake at your side and you give old Duke here instructions and he’ll take you anywhere in Sweyn’s Eye.’ Mark smiled. ‘Don’t look as if someone’s stepped on your pet corn, Mary; the van won’t bite, you know.’

  Mary gripped the reins until her knuckles gleamed white. The wind hissed through her hair and she chewed her lip in concentration. She was worried lest the large vehicle rolling along the road was about to run away with her. Past the Mexico Fountain she drove and down towards the river, her stomach doing somersaults.

  ‘I’ll never handle this thing properly,’ she said through gritted teeth as she negotiated a corner and Mark laughed.

  ‘That’s a daft thing to say. Who do you think is doing the driving now?’ He pulled at her shoulders. ‘Come on, now, no need to crouch over like that, you’re not going to fall off. Back straight, try to relax, that’s it, you’re doing fine.’

  ‘There’s easy it’s going to be for me to get round the valleys,’ Mary said, manoeuvring the van more deftly round a bend in the road. ‘As long as old Duke doesn’t stop to chew grass, that is,’ Mark replied, smiling.

  There was a group of sightseers waiting in Market Street for Mary’s return. None of the small local traders had owned anything like the Camel Top Van; anything more than a simple cart with two wheels was a luxury. As she alighted from the driving seat, there was a burst of clapping and she swallowed hard, touchingly aware of the admiration on the faces of the people standing watching her.