Mary glanced at the ornate clock on the wall, but it was still early, the meeting would not start before noon. The morning was a time for laughter and frivolity and only later would the business of the day begin in earnest.
She felt very alone as she moved around the store. Rich materials hung on display frames and the shelves were stocked to capacity. In spite of the strikes, Mary could consider herself a rich woman. Yet happiness was another matter entirely and the nearest she had come to it was when Brandon held her in his arms. But love was for the favoured few, not for the likes of Mary Jenkins.
She moved abruptly to pick up her coat, thinking that she might just as well lock up and go home for there was little point in remaining in an empty store.
She moved down the wide staircase, feeling the coarseness of the jute beneath her feet, telling herself that soon she would have splendid rich carpeting. Yet there was no excitement in the prospect. What was success if there was no one with whom to share it?
She was at the door when a figure huddled into a shawl came towards her. ‘Bertha, what on earth are you doing here and covered up like that, is something wrong?’
‘Yes, there is and Mr Dean would kill me if he knew I was here clecking to you.’ She glanced over her shoulder as though afraid she had been followed.
‘I heard Mr Dean talking. He’s got a bunch of men together, mercenaries he calls them, going to disrupt the meeting. He and Mr Rickie Richardson were discussing it. I know your brother works for Brandon Sutton and I was afeared that something would happen to him, he being all you got in the world.’
‘You did right to come to me.’ Mary tried to be calm, though her heart was thumping so loudly she could scarcely think. ‘You must do one more thing for me – call round the houses of the men who work for Brandon. Women like the wife of Joe Phillips, they’ll stand by me, I’ll be bound.’
‘But you can’t interfere in what’s going on at the recreation ground,’ Bertha said in horror. ‘I wanted you to stop your Heath going, not to join in the fight yourself.’
‘Just do as I say, Bertha,’ Mary said firmly. ‘Trust me, I know what I’m doing.’
She watched Bertha leave and then hurried along the main street which was silent and empty now, littered with papers and discarded bottles. As she turned the corner past the Cape Horner, she heard the sound of drumbeats and they seemed to echo in her head, part of her own pulse. She moved as quickly as she could, hampered by her high heels and narrow skirt. There was no point in going for the tram, for the traffic would be stopped in honour of the parade.
The canal was golden with green fronds of fern drifting on the surface, and to her right stood the laundry – desolate and ruined, a mere shell. It was difficult now to imagine the old days when she had worked with Mali and when Mr Waddington was the kindly owner who encouraged his girls to better things.
The Sutton family had catapulted into Mary’s life bringing with them destruction and hate, yet from the ashes Mary had risen to become a rich woman in her own right. She brushed her thoughts aside, her breathing uneven as she neared the docks where the steamships rolled at anchor and where one lone sailing vessel stood proud and tall in the sunshine.
Here it was she had met and talked with Brandon at the spot on the quay where they both sought solace for troubled minds. They had so much in common, Mary thought, and yet they were divided by a gulf of mistrust and doubt and by the heritage of wealth.
Soon Mary was in the broad tree-lined avenue that led towards the recreation ground. She heard the voice of the crowds like a roaring of beasts and the beat of many drums competed with the rolling of the waves.
The meeting had not yet begun and she sighed with relief. There was still time to warn Brandon about his brother’s plan to send in mercenaries to disrupt the proceedings. She looked frantically around her, trying to spot a familiar face, someone who would know where Brandon was.
A man leaned over her, his face painted ghastly white, his eyes rolling in his head and his breath smelling of ale. He was like some monster dragged up from a nightmare and Mary pushed him aside angrily.
A makeshift platform had been erected on the grass not far from where the old one had stood. Mary shuddered, seeing splinters of wood still littering the ground and realising that Dean had meant the charge to go off when Brandon was speaking.
‘Cain and Abel,’ she muttered under her breath.
There was a drum roll and a cheer went up from the crowd as Mary saw Brandon climb onto the platform, his hands held out for silence. He looked tall and handsome and Mary loved him so much that she could hardly bear it.
She was pushed roughly aside then and glancing up she saw a stranger, his eyes hard, his lips a thin mean line. He was carrying a thick stick and Mary knew with a sinking heart that he was one of the mercenaries Bertha had spoken of. She looked round carefully, spotting other strange faces among those of the townspeople.
As soon as Brandon began to speak, he was heckled by the man grasping a stick. ‘This is a boss speaking to us, he’s no right to be here. Bosses are liars, we all know that!’ There was a murmur from the crowds as the man continued to speak.
‘This Sutton fellow can’t even run his own business – got to close down any day now, you ask him. And this handbook of his, where is it? We’re all tired of waiting and of promises that are never kept.’
Brandon was unruffled. ‘If that man who is so brave in the crowd would like to come and face me, then we can talk.’ His voice was clear and strong, obviously making a good impression on his listeners.
Suddenly, Dean Sutton was leaping up onto the platform and the brothers stared at each other in silence for a moment before Dean began to speak.
‘I know my brother for a failure and a fool,’ he shouted. ‘He’s sold you men out, letting me buy shares in his works knowing I’m a supporter of the Employers Association.’
There was a buzz of excited voices and Dean held up his hand. ‘You know where you are with a proper boss. Come over to the Association’s way of thinking, fit in as you’ve always done and there will be no more disputes. Seek fair wages the right way, by negotiation with your bosses. Get rid of men like Brandon Sutton, he’s a traitor to his own class and he’ll be a traitor to you.’
The man at Mary’s side waved his stick aloft. ‘Let’s teach this Brandon Sutton a lesson he’ll never forget.’
Mary looked round frantically. There was no sign of Joe Phillips’s wife or of the other women, but something had to be done and soon. On an impulse she pushed her way through the crowd and stepped up onto the platform.
‘I’m Mary Jenkins, but then you all know me,’ she said loudly. ‘I’m one of you, born and bred in the slums of Sweyn’s Eye and always one to speak plain, mind.’
Mary felt Brandon grip her arm. ‘Get down from here, you don’t realise how dangerous this situation could become.’
She gave him a quick look. ‘You are the man I love and I’ll not leave you alone in trouble,’ she said.
A voice called to her from among the people. ‘Might have been one of us once, Mary Jenkins, but rich you are now.’
She faced the crowd, her head high. ‘Aye, rich I am and haven’t I shared what I have with you all? Ask any housewife in Sweyn’s Eye and you’ll get the same answer – Mary will wait for any money that’s owed!’
Her words were greeted by silence and, encouraged, Mary continued. ‘This man Brandon Sutton is honest, trying to help you, but you poor fools can’t see it. Had trouble printing his book, press burned down, machines destroyed – and why? To keep you workers getting what’s owing you. Open your eyes, which of these two men up here would you rather trust?’
For a moment, it seemed as though Mary had won and then one of the mercenaries was moving forward. ‘Are you a lot of petticoats to be swayed by a woman? Fight for your rights the way the men of the valleys have always needed to fight.’
As the mass of people pushed forward like a restless sea, Brandon thrust Mary from the
platform.
‘Get out of here as quickly as you can honey,’ he said loudly. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have my hands full.’
It was as though all hell was let loose, women were screaming and fists flying. Mary looked back and was horrified to see the platform swamped by mercenaries.
‘Brandon!’ She cried his name, but her voice was lost in the animal noises of the crowd. She was frightened, her head spinning as she tried to push aside the people who were crowding her. She cried out as a flying arm caught her a blow on the side of her face and she hit out blindly.
Separated from Brandon by a crush of fighting men, Mary saw Joe Phillips throw a great fist in the face of a mercenary. The man fell like a log, blood pouring from mouth and nose and she felt a savage satisfaction in knowing that Brandon’s men were still on his side.
She found herself on the edge of the skirmish, her hair hanging loose down her back, her good serge jacket torn from her shoulders. A whirl of flying fists and lashing boots knocked her sideways and she fell on to the hard ground gasping for breath.
A tall figure stood over her and Mary looked up fearfully into Dean Sutton’s face. His eyes glittered with anger as he reached out and caught her arm, jerking her roughly to her feet.
‘Can’t mind your own business, can you?’ He ground the words from between clenched teeth. ‘Well, you’ve chosen the brother who is nothing but a failure, do you understand? Brandon is through, finished and you two deserve each other.’
Panting, Mary tried to pull away from him. ‘Duw, I’m glad I never let scum like you put a finger on me!’ She stared at him scornfully. ‘You tricked me over those shares of Brandon’s, didn’t you? Somehow you must have bribed Gregory Irons to let you have them instead of me, after I’d signed papers and all.’ She paused for breath. ‘What sort of a man would bring mercenaries to fight his brother? A coward you are, Dean Sutton, a coward!’
His hand lashed out catching her a blow that sent her reeling against the rough bark of a tree. Dazed, she looked up in time to see Brandon launch himself on his brother and bear him to the ground.
Brandon’s fist smashed home once, twice and then a third time. Dean tried to get to his feet, but Brandon was like one possessed.
Gasping for breath, Mary rose to her feet, catching Brandon around his waist and shouting at him to stop, trying to penetrate the mists of rage that clouded the turquoise eyes.
‘Please, you’ll kill him and he’s not worth it.’
Brandon moved away from his brother and stood looking down at him in disgust. ‘So you tricked Mary over the shares, did you? And as for all this,’ his hand swung out, encompassing the crowds of fighting men, ‘I might have known you were behind it.’
He paused for a moment as though to control the anger that was plain to see in the set of his mouth. ‘About those shares, I think you are going to have to sign them back to me, unless you want your exploits to be exposed to the whole of Sweyn’s Eye.’
Dean stared up at him truculently. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about; accusations are one thing, proof another.’
‘I have witnesses,’ Brandon said calmly. ‘Two respectable people who heard Gerwin Price blame you for the charge that was placed under the platform.’ Brandon stared at his brother and shook his head. ‘Oh, I might not make it hold up in a court of law, but remember this, Dean, mud sticks and even the most shady inhabitants of Sweyn’s Eye would draw the line at murder. And one more thing, Father’s will. I don’t think you’ll be contesting it after all.’
Dean stared at his brother with the eyes of a man who knows he has been beaten. Brandon took a step towards him. ‘If you come near me or Mary again, I’ll kill you.’ His voice was flat, unemotional and the more frightening for the lack of anger in it. ‘Now get out of my sight before I start on you again.’
Dean lurched to his feet, rubbing his hand across his mouth and without a word, turned and lurched away into the crowd. Mary was about to speak when her attention was caught by a loud cheer and she looked along the length of the recreation ground and saw Rhian at the head of a band of women. They all wielded weapons: broom handles, rolling pins, even stone water bottles.
Joe Phillips’s wife stood on a box and shouted at the top of her voice. ‘We fight for Brandon Sutton and we fight our own menfolk if need be.’
The women banded together and Mrs Phillips lashed out at the nearest man with her broom. He yelped like a dog and ran into the crowd and a wash of laughter swept through the onlookers. In no time at all, the mercenaries seemed to vanish and men were picking themselves up from the ground, shaking their heads and holding hands over blackened eyes. Mary took a deep shuddering breath; it seemed the fighting was over.
‘Mr Sutton!’ A voice called loudly with a note of excitement that attracted everyone’s attention. Mark pushed his way through the crowd with Katie close behind him. He was holding aloft a book, the pages shivering and moving in the breeze as though with a life of their own.
‘Here it is, men!’ Mark said jubilantly. ‘The handbook we’ve all been waiting for! There’s no going back now, thousands of these have been printed and the bosses will have to take notice of our claims.’
Brandon was surrounded by a press of cheering men, then lifted high on the shoulders of his workers and carried triumphantly through the grounds.
Alone, Mary moved towards the beach and walked along the golden sand, uncaring of her dishevelled appearance. Her feet sank into the golden sand and the wash of the waves was an accompaniment to the tears falling down her cheeks.
At the quayside, she sat on the wall and stared out at the ships riding high in the harbour. The sky was overcast and the threat of rain was in the air. Mary felt as though she was suddenly the only person left on earth. The silence was deep and heavy, without even the hoot of a tug boat to send the gulls crying into the air.
She heard distant footsteps and glanced up quickly, her eyes narrowing so that she could see better into the distance. There was no mistaking the tall straight figure coming towards her and Mary got to her feet and stood trembling, her hands clenched at her sides.
‘Brandon!’ She sighed his name, love washing over her. And then, unbelievably, he was holding out his arms to her. She paused, her heart fluttering like a caged bird, then she began to run, her hair streaming in the breeze. The distance between them seemed great, but Mary knew with a deep conviction that she would reach him in spite of the difference in their worlds. She flung herself against him and Brandon cradled her close, his lips on her hair.
A ray of sunlight pierced the clouds, bathing them both in a golden pool. ‘My proud Mary, I won’t let you run away from me again, not now or ever,’ he said softly.
She put up her hands and cupped his face, her eyes shining. He kissed away a tear as it coursed down her cheek.
‘You know I can’t promise you an easy life, don’t you?’ he whispered, his lips still against her cheek. ‘I may have nothing to offer but constant battling against the Association.’
He paused and looked into her eyes. ‘Well, Mary, will you have me?’ he said at last.
She was trembling so much that she could hardly speak. ‘My love,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you know you are all I have ever wanted in this world?’ She drew his mouth down to cover hers and it was as though the earth had begun to sing.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1984 by Century Publishing Co. Ltd
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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United Kingdom
Copyright © Iris Gower, 1984
The moral right of Iris Gower to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including ph
otocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788639583
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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