Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  Mary stared at him numbly. ‘Mark has said nothing to me.’ Her lips were stiff and the words sounded stilted and she was aware of Brandon’s eyes studying her closely.

  ‘Then I’ve jumped the gun, I’m sorry,’ he said briskly. ‘Come on, I’ll see you home, you look awful. Good night, Evo!’ He called loudly over his shoulder and was met with a faint answering response from the other room.

  Mary did not even have the heart to respond to his jibes. She got to her feet and followed him meekly outside into the cold darkness of the night. He took her arm and led her across the uneven ground and she leaned against him for support, tears trembling on her lashes as she thought of what might have been had this man been of her own kind. But he was Brandon Sutton, a man on his own, not fitting into any mould. He was a rarity in the world of Sweyn’s Eye, where it had always been worker and boss and never the twain should meet.

  Somehow he had breached that gap, had become one of the men while still retaining his own strength of personality. He was a man she could love and respect and Mary knew that no one would ever take his place in her heart.

  In silence they walked up the hill towards Market Street. The gaslights shimmered down on the icy pavements, yet Mary didn’t feel the cold. She could have walked with Brandon at her side across the whole world.

  At the door to the Murphys’ house, Brandon halted. He stared down at Mary for a long moment in silence and then, without touching her with his hands, he leaned forward and kissed her.

  ‘Look after yourself, Mary Jenkins,’ he said softly and then he was striding away, disappearing into the darkness. Mary watched him go, and could not help feeling that in some strange way he had been saying goodbye to her. She closed her eyes and clung on to the memory of his nearness for a moment, before turning to go indoors.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The bar of the Cape Horner was steamy and damp. Outside, the rain streamed down the windows like tears running in swift eddies along the gutters. Gerwin Price sat inside the bar, his dark eyes darting expectantly to the door every time it opened.

  He shifted uneasily in his seat. He had done his part and for that he had yet to be paid, but he wasn’t sure that he trusted Sutton the American, or Rickie Richardson if it came to that. He had taken all the risks so it seemed, since he was the one actually to set fire to the press. Had he been caught it would have been prison for him and he dreaded what would happen should he find himself caged up with Billy Gray.

  By now Billy would have caught on to the fact that he’d been framed, and it wouldn’t take him very long to figure out who was responsible for the break-in at the offices of Brandon Sutton. Billy had never been stupid, but on the night of the robbery he had taken the blame for everything.

  Gerwin had watched as Dean Sutton slipped a package of notes into Billy’s pockets. Now he frowned at the recollection; you couldn’t trust a man like Sutton, not an inch. Gerwin’s hands clenched into fists – it burned in his gut to think of the way his old man had died, falling screaming into the black cavern to smash his skull on the rocks below. The old man didn’t deserve that. He had worked hard, sweated his guts out, spending the dark hours of the night as watchman instead of being asleep in his bed. Damn and blast Billy Gray for being there at the wrong moment!

  His thoughts were interrupted by the swinging open of the double doors and the sudden inrush of wind and rain. He shivered as Rickie Richardson sat down beside him, his collar turned up against the cold.

  ‘You did well.’ Rickie eased himself back in the chair. ‘Blast this rain, it gets in everywhere.’ He shook his trouser leg impatiently, staring down at the sodden material. ‘Good job you did on the press, made sure you weren’t seen, I suppose?’

  Gerwin shook his head. ‘Nobody there to watch what I was about, see, didn’t expect no trouble, like.’ He was uneasy – where was Mr Sutton who was supposed to be bringing the money with him tonight? He looked at Rickie Richardson and the question stuck in his throat. These men weren’t his sort, they were clever dicks and had plenty of money to boot. He must be careful, otherwise he could lose out altogether. It didn’t do to offend the gentry.

  ‘Mr Sutton can’t come himself,’ Rickie said casually, ‘but he asked me to give you this.’ He placed a packet on the table and Gerwin transferred it to his pocket in one slick movement. He smiled, feeling happier now with the money resting against his side. He drank some of the thick dark ale and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

  Gerwin Price was not a pleasant sight, Rickie thought in distaste. The man’s hair stood up like bundles of hay in a field and his jaw was slack. Why Dean had any truck with the fellow Rickie didn’t know. The man was not over-bright by any standards, and his very unpleasantness was enough to draw attention to the fellow. Well, he’d done his bit now and Rickie felt he could leave. He rose to his feet, nodded at the man and left the bar without another word.

  Gerwin stared after him. ‘Uppity sod!’ he muttered. He knew they all looked down their noses at him, but he didn’t care a twopenny toss for that. So long as they paid him good money, they could give themselves all the airs and graces in the world.

  He ordered another pint of ale and sipped it slowly, savouring the thought of the moment when he would tip out the money and count it at his leisure. The wind outside rattled the trees and pointed branches tapped against the glass panes like skeletal fingers. Gerwin wondered what he should do next; perhaps he could buy himself a floosie, someone nice and not too old. It was a long time since he’d had a woman, a tidy one that was. The idea grew in his mind and lodged there and after a few more drinks, Gerwin pushed back his seat and made for the door.

  The rain had abated a little and the wind had dropped, but the cold hand of winter lay over the shadowed streets, frosting the rooftops with silver and turning the hills into fairy-tale islands, the tops lost in the mists.

  Gerwin lumbered towards his home, his tread slow and measured. He never did anything quickly, his every action was deliberate, his body as slow-moving as his mind. But he had done a good job on the fire, he told himself with satisfaction; he had enjoyed seeing the flames leaping skywards like the tapping out of the blast furnaces at the works.

  The cottage stood on the edge of the Sutton estate. It was small and dingy and since the death of his father, the conditions in which Gerwin lived had become steadily worse, the younger members of the family had long since been taken off to the workhouse and now Gerwin lived alone.

  ‘Like a pig in shit!’ he said aloud as the smell greeted him when he opened the creaking front door. The stench from the kitchen was enough to make him heave and he wrinkled up his nose as he bent to put a match to the fire. He must get the place a bit more tidy, if he meant to bring some floosie home for the night. Whores they might be, but they were women and liked a bit of niceness around them.

  His idea of clearing away was to dump all the stale pieces of bread and bacon rind into a sack, along with empty tins and potato peelings. He threw cold water over the floor and rubbed at the accumulation of grease with a broom in a futile attempt to clean the slates.

  Later, he washed himself down at the pump in the yard, shivering at the coldness of the night air. He stared up into the heavens, wondering why he was alone in life and depending on the paid services of a whore for comfort instead of coming home to a sweet young wife as other men did. He brushed back his hair, trying vainly to suppress the springy tufts. If he took great care with his appearance, might he not find himself a nice respectable girl, he thought with sudden hope – he had money now.

  When he was ready, he stared at himself in the cracked mirror over the mantelpiece. ‘Not ’arf bad,’ he said slowly. He had found a shirt that once belonged to his father. It was one used for weddings and funerals and though the collar was a little tight for Gerwin, it was crisp and clean and looked better than his own shirts which were ingrained now with filth.

  The sky was clearer, the mists dispelled by the sharp breeze coming in from
the sea as Gerwin walked with his usual measured tread down towards the lights of the town. They glittered at him like jewels and his spirits rose. There was no need for a well set-up young chap to be without a woman, he told himself. He had a house and some money in his pocket, which was quite a lot to offer a girl in his opinion.

  He went towards the lighted windows of the Mexico Fountain and stood for a moment looking inside. There were women there of course, but floosies all of them with floured faces and red lips and over-bright hair. Perhaps he would have one of them first, just to take the edge off his appetite, then he could start looking round for a respectable girl.

  It was warm and cosy in the public bar with the resonant sounds of male laughter and the happy chatter of the women making an accompaniment to the swish of beer as it ran into the waiting mugs. Gerwin tried to see a floosie on her own, but every one of them seemed taken up with some fellow or other. He attached himself to the fringe of one of the crowds, hanging on to his mug of ale like grim death, his mouth dry.

  ‘Bad day it’s been, hasn’t it?’ He spoke too loudly and curious stares were fixed upon him. ‘But it’s not raining now,’ he continued desperately, ‘cold though and windy.’

  He heard a sweep of laughter and then someone in the crowd muttered something that sounded like ‘windbag yourself, man’ and he felt the colour rise hot and red to his face. He swilled down the ale, spilling some of it over his clean shirt which caused even more amusement.

  Quickly he left the bar, feeling pain and anger surge through him as he stood outside, his big hands hanging at his sides. He was like a friendly dog that had been kicked and suddenly his fist lashed out, hitting the hard stone of the wall. He sucked the blood from his knuckles and moved away from the lighted windows.

  ‘Scum!’ He spoke angrily. ‘Whores and pimps, the lot of you!’ He walked down the hill towards the chapel at Pentre Estyll. Pausing, he noticed that the windows gleamed like beacons in the darkness, proclaiming that there was a meeting being conducted behind the thick stone walls.

  He leaned against the rough bark of a tree; the ground was sodden beneath his feet, but he did not notice. As he heard the sound of singing rising sweetly on the silent night air, clean and good, Gerwin felt tears come into his eyes.

  He wasn’t a bad man, not really; he only did harm to those who deserved it. He was misunderstood – no one seemed prepared to talk to him and listen to what he wanted to say.

  When the singing finished, there was a stir from behind the chapel doors and his face was lit with happiness as he saw the girls come out into the night with their basket hats and warm shawls wrapped round their shoulders. They breathed little puffs of mist as they talked to each other and he waited, reluctant to approach them. Perhaps he ought to go home after all, he was not going to find anyone among this lot.

  But then one girl came out alone, standing still in the light from the doorway, her hair gleaming as it peeped out from under the brim of her hat. She hugged her shawl closer and Gerwin could see the small but womanly shape of her and his breathing became uneven. Why was she standing there alone looking up and down in the darkness? Was she waiting for someone?

  The lights went out behind her one by one and still she stood there. Gerwin’s heart dipped in pity; she was being rejected just as he was, but he would not let her be sad, he would take her to his home and look after her. He would watch for a moment longer, until the old lady and gentleman who were calling their good nights had gone from sight, then he would go to her and take her home.

  Rhian was angry, but she concealed her feelings as she said her good nights to the Reverend Parker and his wife.

  ‘Yes, lovely meeting, thank you. Of course I’ll come again, it was very uplifting.’ She watched them walk away and for a moment envied them. Mrs Parker was clinging to her husband’s arm and he was leaning forward, giving her his full attention as though every word she spoke was a pearl of wisdom.

  Rhian glanced up the lane. Where was Heath? He had promised to come and meet her after practice. He was being so offhand with her that it was driving her to distraction. He knew how she felt about him; was it her fault that she believed a girl should remain chaste until after the wedding ceremony. A trick to trap a man, that was the way Heath looked upon her scruples. She could hear the derisory tone in his voice even now.

  ‘Girls do what they like with men nowadays,’ he had said just before she left the house earlier. ‘No need to wait for the wedding bells. Try it out, see if you like it first, for it’s no good changing your mind afterwards.’ He had laughed at her shocked expression, not knowing that she was picturing him in Carrie’s arms.

  ‘Never mind, you’ve got a lot of growing up to do yet, cariad.’ But she was grown up, Rhian thought indignantly. She was a working girl earning her own living, paying Auntie for her keep. That she had been unable to work these last weeks because of her burned arm was not her fault. In any case, the laundry needed rebuilding and there was talk that it might never be opened again.

  Rhian stirred restlessly, feeling the cold of the stone step bite in through the soles of her boots. Perhaps she should wait no longer but make her own way back home. She pouted, for she had looked forward to talking alone with Heath away from her aunt, who seemed to listen to everything she said.

  She shivered and drew the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, deciding she would give Heath a few more minutes – perhaps he had been delayed. And maybe he wasn’t coming at all, said a voice inside her. Anger was replaced by despair then and Rhian began to walk away from the silent empty chapel which stood over her like some great dark monster.

  She thought she heard footsteps, slow and measured, following her along the lane towards the road, told herself sternly that she was being silly and allowing her imagination to get the better of her. Yet the footsteps continued like the dull thud of a heartbeat behind her.

  Rhian quickened her pace, but as she looked over her shoulder she saw a large shape loom up behind her. She would have screamed, but a hand was across her mouth and dark eyes were staring into hers. The man held her against his body, talking to her and soothing her as though she was a spirited filly.

  ‘There now, be quiet like and I’ll take care of you. No need to be afeared of me, I shan’t do you any harm. Just come home with me where we can talk.’

  Rhian tried to protest but she was being dragged bodily along the dark lane. And although she attempted to resist, her struggles were useless.

  ‘You’re scared,’ he said, almost in wonder. ‘Your heart is beating like a little trapped bird.’ His hand was on her breast and Rhian shrank inside herself.

  ‘Don’t be worried, I’m only taking you home. I’ve got a pocket full of money and I’ll see you are all right. Gerwin Price is my name, perhaps you’ll tell me yours when we get more friendly.’

  Rhian felt blind panic race through her. She knew of Gerwin Price, he was the reason for her brother being behind prison walls. God, she couldn’t tell him her name or he would kill her for sure. He believed that Billy was responsible for the death of his father.

  She kicked out and then caught at the branch of a tree with her hands. Gerwin dragged at her impatiently and her arms were almost pulled from their sockets. She cried out against the palm that covered her lips with bruising strength but nothing, it seemed, would deter the man from his intention of taking her to his home.

  She felt her strength ebb away. Her feet were dragging along the ground now, she was trembling with fear. Was there no one to see her and help her escape from the clutches of this madman? A faint moon crept from between the clouds, the streets were silent for Gerwin had taken the small byroads out of town.

  As the twinkling, friendly lights from the houses faded away, Rhian’s last hopes of escape died. Now she was being lifted bodily over a small wall, they were crossing a field and still the hand was clasped to her mouth until she thought she would never draw breath again.

  A small cottage suddenly loomed up before them
and he kicked open the door. Then she was inside and the foetid smell almost made her gag. He pushed her into a chair and lit an oil lamp and then he was holding it above his head, smiling down at her like some demon out of hell.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Rhian asked, her teeth chattering with fear. He smiled and placed the lamp between them and Rhian saw that the table was filthy, the grooves between the planking filled with grease.

  He ignored her question. ‘You’re a good girl, come from the chapel, haven’t you?’

  Rhian nodded. ‘Yes, but I don’t know who you are, so what do you want with me?’ She must be calm, she told herself, talk to him nicely, not anger him and then perhaps he would not harm her. So suddenly that she screamed in fear, he snatched at her hand and examined it under the light.

  ‘You haven’t got a husband, see, there’s no wedding ring on your finger. How would you like to stay with me?’

  Rhian strove to control herself. ‘I am promised to someone, though, and I must keep my word – you surely know that?’

  ‘Look girlie, I may be drunk,’ he said roughly, ‘but I’m not soft in the head, mind. If you haven’t got a ring, then you have never had a man between your legs, now is that true?’

  Rhian began to cry, she could not help herself. Tears loomed up into her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Gerwin muttered an oath and went to the cupboard, taking out a bottle of gin and swallowing deeply. After a moment, he returned to her.

  ‘Look, why don’t you make us something to eat and tidy up a bit about the house,’ he suggested, his voice slurred. ‘I know the place don’t seem much now, but women have got the knack of making it all look right.’ He leaned over, his voice rising. ‘And stop blubbering, I can’t stand a woman who blubbers.’

  Rhian got to her feet quickly and rolled up her sleeves. ‘If you want me to do cleaning, you’d better build up that fire,’ she said quickly. ‘I can’t do without hot water, can I?’